The
Peasant
King
Robin Peatfield
Copyright 2004 Robin Peatfield
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher.
Published by Robin Peatfield at Smashwords.
The King Is Dead
~ ~
“The King is dead,” echoed loudly through the castle. It was early morning in the summer of 1152 A.D.
In the King's bedroom, the King's body laid still and motionless, on a large four post bed. Even dead, he was an impressive sight—just over six feet tall with a magnificent, superbly conditioned, physique. A handsome, rugged man, with features hardened by the many battles he had fought in his life, battles to secure the freedom and prosperity of his people. He was a truly exceptional King, strong, but fair, and greatly loved by his people.
Now, he was at peace, aged fifty-four.
The mood everywhere was solemn, everyone was in mourning. Everyone that is, except for the Queen, who was ecstatic and delighted upon hearing this joyous and wonderful news.
The Queen and the royal physician leaned over the stiff and cold body of the King. Behind them, stood the King's advisor and closest friend, the Duke of Rocheford.
The Queen was a younger woman, forty-something. No one knew her exact age, but it was certainly more than the forty-one she confessed too. Although, to be fair, she had lied about it for so long that even she did not remember the precise year of her birth. Still, the years had taken their toll—she may have been beautiful a long time ago but now she looked like a haggard and mean old woman. Her mean appearance was well suited to her character, a nasty woman—not the kind of woman to cross.
A collection of court advisors, servants, and sycophants, congregated in the room, anticipating what the Queen would do next.
There was an expectant silence.
The Queen smiled a twisted evil smile. “It's a wonder the old fart lasted as long as he did,” she screeched. There was no sentiment or compassion in her cold and black heart.
There were a few gasps and some shocked faces, but most of the congregation were not particularly surprised by the Queen's cold-blooded remark.
While everyone's attention was diverted towards the current events—and the Queen's behavior, the Queen's daughter, Princess Sarah, entered the room, unobserved. She stopped, just inside the room, by the door, remaining inconspicuous.
The Queen nonchalantly turned away from the King's bed. “Get him boxed up and out of here,” she said, indifferently.
“Mother, how could you?” gasped Princess Sarah, shocked and astonished by the Queen's callousness.
Princess Sarah's outburst had caught everybody by surprise. Everyone turned and focused their gaping eyes on the Princess.
The morning sun radiated through a window and bathed the Princess in a soft warm glow. The sunlight lit up her bright green eyes and reflected from the fair complexion of her delicate skin. With long dark hair that was soft and slightly curled, she looked like an angel. Princess Sarah was seventeen years old and breathtakingly beautiful.
The Queen had also been caught by the surprise entrance of the Princess. She spun quickly, to face her daughter, a blank expression on her face.
“What?” said the Queen, innocently, holding her hands out in front of herself.
“Mother,” replied the Princess, emphasizing her displeasure by talking through her teeth.
The Queen thought cunningly fast. “Why Sarah, I meant that, that, that, I loved your wonderful stepfather so much, I could not bear to see him lay there any longer,” she said. “And besides, we must not waste any time in making the arrangements to have you declared the new Queen.”
It was difficult for the Queen to display any sympathy, but for the sake of her daughter it was worth a try. She was not very convincing.
The Princess had not known her stepfather very long but had found him to be a kind and generous man. He had always treated her like his own daughter, with a great deal of love and affection. She loved him, even if her mother did not.
Her mother, in contrast, was a conniving, selfish woman only interested in the power her position had brought her. She had manipulated the King into a marriage and now she was finally going to reap the benefits.
“I'm not entirely stupid mother...”
Before Princess Sarah could finish, she was interrupted by the Queen. “Oh come now my dear, you know I was just thinking of you.”
The Queen held out her arms and walked towards the Princess. The lack of sincerity oozed out of her.
“Come here,” she said.
Princess Sarah remained still. Instead, she crossed her arms, defiantly. She did not want to be treated like a child again.
The Queen wrapped her arms around the Princess and gave her an unconvincing hug—with a patronizing pat on the back.
“When you become Queen, you will be able to do whatever you want. You know that's all I want for you,” she said, feigning some more sincerity.
Although Princess Sarah was a highly intelligent girl, she was also very naive when it came to dealing with her mother. So far, the Queen had managed to fool Sarah for most of her life. Now was not going to be any different.
Princess Sarah and the Queen were interrupted by a nervous sounding cough. It was the Duke of Rocheford.
“Excuse me your highness?” he mumbled.
The Duke was about fifty years old. His best years were well behind him but he was still a dignified figure of a man. An old fashioned gentleman and Knight.
He had always been wary of the Queen, believing her to be a scheming woman, only intent on gaining power.
His instincts were correct.
Right now, he was not sure if he should speak; the King was no longer there to protect him from the Queen's venomous wrath.
The Queen turned quickly to the Duke and snapped impatiently at him.
“What is it Rocheford?”
She had little time for the Duke, considering him to be a useless old fool who could no longer command respect from anyone, except maybe idiots, and some of the more geriatric Knights.
It was clear to everyone that the Duke was nervous, he shuffled erratically, and his hands shook slightly, his body language was obvious. He also began to talk with a stutter.
“W, W, Well, it's just that I w, w, was sworn t, to s, s, secrecy by the K, K, K, King f, f, for the last tw, twenty years. Only now, I, I, r, r, really don't know,” he stammered.
The Queen had already lost patience with the Duke. She looked at him like he was a worthless piece of sheep dung.
“Go on,” she said, irritated, her voice getting deeper as she ended the sentence.
“Well, th, th, the King has a, a, a ...”
The Duke was having difficulty in finding the right words to tell his secret without infuriating the Queen—it would make little difference, whatever words he chose.
A deathly silence engulfed the late King's bedroom as the entire court strained to hear the Duke's revelation. For many, this was probably the most exciting moment of their meaningless and pathetic lives.
The Duke paused, seemingly reluctant to continue.
“Spit it out Rocheford, or I will have you stripped and flogged,” shouted the Queen.
“Not the cat,” squeaked one of the court excitedly, referring to the possibility of seeing the cat o' nine tails in action.
“The cat,” mumbled another court member.
The Queen held up a hand and turned round so that she was facing the court. “Enough,” she said loudly.
“Meow,” echoed along several other court members, taunting the Duke.
“I said enough. The next person who says meow will also get a flogging,” the Queen added forcefully. She turned back to face the Duke.
“Ow!” shrieked the royal physician from the back of the court. The Queen spun quickly, and glared at the physician.
The physician held up his hands, trying to protest his innocence. “I said ow, not meow. Someone stepped on my foot,” he said nervously.
The Queen stared at the physician for a few seconds, saying nothing, and then turned back to the Duke. “You were saying,” she said.
She did not believe the Duke could have anything to say that would be remotely interesting, but something about the way the Duke was behaving gave her a feeling of discomfort. She was anxious to hear what he had to say anyway.
The Duke gulped.
“The King has a son,” he blurted quickly, fearful of that flogging.
“What?” shouted the Queen.
The Queen froze, like a statue, shocked by the news. The old fool really did have something interesting to say. Maybe she did not hear him correctly?
“Was that meant to be funny?” she uttered, “A joke, per se?”
There was a pause. The tension was electric. Everyone waited in anticipation. All eyes focused on the Duke, burning into him, like hot needles.
“No, it's true, the King has a son, born to him by a chambermaid nearly twenty years ago. The King had the maid and her child sent away, to prevent a scandal and avoid embarrassment to the Queen,” he replied nervously.
A bewildered look of disbelief slowly emerged on the Queen's face.
“That's why no one knows about him,” the Duke sheepishly added.
The Queen was stunned by the announcement and took a few moments to digest the shocking confession. She composed herself, and then her anger boiled over.
“Where did they go?” she screamed.
The Duke did not want to divulge the whereabouts of the King's son, he feared the consequences for the poor wretch. On the other hand, fear for his own safety guided him wisely.
“He was taken to an inn called the Saracen's Arms, many miles to the north, on the road to York,” he spluttered very quickly.
The Duke shook his head, disappointed with himself. He grimaced and tightened his right fist. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He had potentially condemned the King's son to death.
The Queen was now in a furious state. She paced backwards and forwards, shaking her fists, ranting through gritted teeth.
“Find him, find him, find this, this, this, ...”
The Queen was lost for the right words to say.
The Archbishop of Froderingham stepped forward. He was a pompous, overweight, righteous man who was never lost for words when making moral pronouncements. He had exactly the words the Queen was looking for.
“Why, he's a B, B, Ba, ....”
The Black Knight
~ ~
“Bastard!” roared the Sergeant of the King's, now-Queen's, guard.
The Sergeant had been gorging himself on a mighty breakfast and several jugs of ale at the Saracen's Arms; an inn conveniently situated between London and York, when he suddenly realized that his purse had been stolen.
He had arrived earlier, with three other soldiers, tired and hungry. The soldiers were on their way back to London after escorting a prisoner to York, a long and tedious job.
They did not reach the inn until late the night before, by which time the inn was closed. As a consequence, they had spent the night in a barn across the street—with no dinner and uncomfortable straw beds. The hunger and lack of sleep had put them in a bad mood.
The Sergeant paused for a moment and stared blankly into space. He reflected back on the events of the last few minutes.
~ The Saracen's Arms, a few minutes earlier ~
The four soldiers sat at a table, eating and drinking large, copious, quantities of food and ale. The speed at which they devoured the provisions was alarming, as was the mess they made—a trough would have been more appropriate than a table.
In between, and during, mouthfuls, they took turns to tell, rather loudly, of their great adventures and heroic deeds. The most animated and loudest storyteller was the Sergeant. He demonstrated with his sword as he told his tales, slashing one way and then the other.
“Anyway, there he was. The King was laying wounded on the ground after being ambushed by three, or was it four, infidels? Well whatever.”
He paused for a moment to gulp down a drink of ale, spilling most of it down the sides of his face, and then continued.
“I jumped off me 'orse and dived straight into the godless heathens. I slashed one way and then the other, thinking my life could end at any moment, but did I care? No, I just did my duty like any Englishman would, I 'ad to protect the King.”
“So, was this the first or second Crusade?” said one of the soldiers sarcastically.
“I don't know, it was a long time ago. Anyway, who cares which one it was,” replied the Sergeant, irritated by the impertinence of his colleague.
The Sergeant paused to collect his thoughts again, and to take another drink. He emptied the cup with a few large gulps, wiped the side of his face with his arm, and banged the empty cup down onto the table.
“More ale Innkeeper!” he shouted.
The Sergeant then continued his account.
“Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I was saving the King from the infidels...”
The Innkeeper approached the group of soldiers and interrupted the Sergeant.
“I'm sorry Sir, but you have not paid for the last round of drinks, or for the food yet,” he said very apologetically.
The Innkeeper was a short, fat man with almost no hair, although the few hairs he still possessed indicated that it was once dark in color. The only other distinguishing thing that could be said about him was that if the lights went out, his nose acted as a large, bright red, emergency lamp. Still, he was a cheerful and kind man, who liked to laugh a lot, and was well liked by everyone.
Right now though, he was not too popular with the Sergeant, who could not believe what had just been said; the audacity of the Innkeeper!
The Sergeant looked up and glared at the Innkeeper with an indignant stare.
“What? You expect me, a hero, employed on the King's business, to pay?” he bellowed, “You should be thanking me and my esteemed colleagues for risking our lives every day to protect the likes of you from outlaws and murderers!”
The Sergeant could not think of anything else useful to say so he waved his left hand aimlessly around in the air. “And so on, and so on,” he added.
“Well the bill is getting rather large Sir,” replied the Innkeeper. He was still apologetic.
“Shut the fuck up and bring more ale!” yelled the Sergeant.
“If you could just see your way to...”
The Innkeeper was stopped abruptly by the Sergeant.
The Sergeant raised his sword and pressed the pointed end against the Innkeeper's throat.
The inn became silent. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked over at the disturbance. They did not get entertainment like this very often so best not to blink and miss something.
Serving at another table was the the Innkeeper's son, Matthew. He was a tall, athletic, fair-haired young man, about eighteen years old, and, quite remarkably, bore no resemblance at all to his father.
Matthew put down his tray and began to walk towards the fracas, preparing himself for trouble.
“I said, how about some more ale?” demanded the Sergeant again.
“Well, if you put it like that Sir,” gulped the Innkeeper.
The Innkeeper slowly retreated from the soldiers and walked back to the bar.
The soldiers laughed.
“You showed him Sarge,” said one of the soldiers.
Matthew changed direction and followed his father to the bar. He was surprised that the Innkeeper had given in so easily to the soldiers. “What are you doing?” he asked.
The Innkeeper began to fill a jug with ale. He was silent. When the jug was full, he spoke. “It's all right, I can take care of it,” he said.
Matthew shook his head sideways and grabbed hold of the jug. “Let me take it father.”
The Innkeeper held tight. “No, I don't want any trouble.”
Matthew let go of the jug and held up his hands. He smiled, a boyish, mischievous smile. “I promise. No trouble.”
The Innkeeper tilted his head to one side, closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. “Okay,” he grimaced, knowing that this might be a mistake. The Innkeeper handed the jug to Matthew but paused for a moment before letting go. “No trouble,” he stressed.
Matthew shrugged his shoulders, gave an innocent look to the Innkeeper, and took the jug. He began to walk across the room but before he reached the soldiers, he suddenly changed direction and headed into the bathroom. A few moments later, he emerged, with a large grin across his face. He sauntered over to the soldiers, and put the jug of ale on the table. “With compliments Sir,” he said as he nodded to the Sergeant.
The Sergeant picked up the jug and began to fill his cup. “Right, now piss off,” he ordered.
The Soldiers laughed again.
Matthew started to walk away, but as he did so, he pretended to trip and fall. As he fell, he brushed the Sergeant and, in a single move, he pulled out a small dagger from his boot and cut free a large purse hanging from the Sergeant's waist. He fell to the floor and slipped the purse into his pocket.
Matthew's bump caused the Sergeant to spill some ale down the front of his pants. The Sergeant jumped up, anger written on his face.
Matthew quickly picked himself up and feigned a look of embarrassment. He held up his hands very apologetically and began to wipe the front of the Sergeant's pants. “I'm so sorry Sir. Please forgive my clumsiness,” he said.
The Sergeant grunted and pushed Matthew away. “Yeah, whatever. I said piss off you little runt.”
Matthew slowly returned to the bar, the large grin reappearing. His father could tell from the look on his face that Matthew had done something, he just did not know what yet.
The Sergeant sat down and had a drink of ale. His face contorted as he swallowed. “Fuck,” he said as he shook his head from side to side, “The beer here tastes like piss.” He raised the cup to his nose, sniffed, and took another sip, making a tasting sound as he rolled his tongue around his mouth. The Sergeant gave a quick shrug of his shoulders and finished the ale off anyway. He then continued his story, “So, where was I?”
Suddenly, the Sergeant returned from his thoughts.
~ The Saracen's Arms, the present ~
A look of realization appeared on the Sergeant's face as he held up the cut ends of his purse string.
“Bastard!” he shouted again.
He looked up, and over, towards the the bar. “Where the devil is that son of yours Innkeeper? I'll have his hide for this!”
Matthew walked casually towards the front door, hoping to make a quick escape before anyone noticed, but unfortunately, one of the soldiers spotted him leaving. “There's the thieving little bugger. Get him,” shouted the soldier.
Matthew opened the door and made a run for it.
The three soldiers sprang up and ran towards the door. The Sergeant grabbed a chicken thigh from his plate and took a large bite before he joined the chase.
The three soldiers were not overly endowed with great intelligence, and it was unlikely that any of them would ever make corporal, but when their limited intellect was combined with their size and strength, they became collectively dangerous.
Consequently, Matthew did not want to be caught. He ran swiftly across the dirt road, towards a hay barn, hoping to hide there. He thought the soldiers would quickly tire of looking for him, and leave. Unfortunately, he miscalculated their doggedness.
As the soldiers ran out of the inn, they saw Matthew enter the barn. They slowed to a walking pace and made their way across the road. When they reached the barn they stopped outside the entrance and waited. A few moments later, they were joined by the Sergeant, who still had a mouthful of chicken.
The Sergeant quickly scanned the barn. There was a large entrance at the front, through which he could see a small door at the rear. Above the front entrance, there was a small hatch leading into a loft. A rope and pulley system, used for lifting hay into the loft, was fixed above the hatch.
“You, and you, round the back,” snapped the Sergeant to two of the soldiers. “You, come with me,” he beckoned to the third.
Two of the soldiers made their way round to the back of the barn—to prevent any possible escape from the rear. The Sergeant and the third soldier walked slowly into the barn.
Once inside the barn, the Sergeant stopped and surveyed his surroundings. The barn was pretty basic, just a few, mostly empty, stalls, lots of piles of hay, and a ladder that led up to the loft. There were no obvious hiding places, and no sign of Matthew.
“Where are you Boy? I'll thrash you to within an inch of your life,” shouted the Sergeant.
Not surprisingly, there was no answer.
The Sergeant and the soldier began to systematically search the barn, prodding piles of hay with their swords, and pushing aside everything in their path, but they found nothing. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, the Sergeant thought that a more cunning and subtle approach was required.
“Come out now lad and I'll make it easy on you,” he called out, somewhat unconvincingly. He paused briefly. “Come on lad. I promise, I'll not hurt you, I just want my purse back.”
The Sergeant paused again. There was no response.
“I've got a boy just about your age who plays pranks like this too. His name is Jack. What do they call you?” the Sergeant shouted again. This time he tried hard to sound sincere, to gain Matthew's confidence, but his growing frustration in his voice was all too evident.
Still there was no answer; Matthew remained silent.
Matthew was hiding in the loft behind a few bales of hay. Scattered around him was a collection of farm tools. He glanced around at the implements and then stopped for a moment, his eyes focused on a cowbell. It might do as a weapon he thought to himself mischievously. Matthew carefully picked up the cowbell, gently wrapping his hand around the cowbell's tongue so as not to make a noise—any sound now would give his position away. He raised himself up slightly and peered over the edge of the loft so that he could see the Sergeant and the other soldier below.
The Sergeant and the soldier retreated to the barn's entrance and turned to face back into the barn. They stood still, talking.
Holding the cowbell tightly in his hand, Matthew stood up and took careful aim at the Sergeant. “Hey, Fatso!” he shouted.
The Sergeant turned quickly and looked up towards the loft where Matthew was standing.
Matthew threw the cowbell as hard as he could towards the Sergeant. The cowbell rang as it whistled through the air.
The Sergeant ducked, and, unfortunately, the cowbell missed him. It wasn't fortunate for the other soldier however, because it smashed into the side of his head with a dull thump followed by a single ring, leaving him slowly sinking to his knees, not knowing exactly who or where he was.
The Sergeant was oblivious to the fate of his compatriot as he shook a fist at Matthew. “What did he say his name was? I didn't catch what he said,” he grunted, not realizing that the other soldier had been hit by the bell.
“I dunno Sarge. But his name rings a bell, ” replied the soldier, slowly and painfully.
The soldier collapsed, he was out cold.
The Sergeant turned to see his colleague prostrate on the ground. “I'll get you, you little bastard,” he mumbled as he ran towards the ladder that led up to the loft. Although, it has to be said that running was not an accurate description; the Sergeant was a large man with severe bowed legs—the kind of man that horses fear, just in case he was to sit on them. Any attempt at running therefore, appeared more like a duck waddling.
The Sergeant began to climb the ladder, which was not an easy task for such a large man. As he did so, Matthew made his escape by sliding gently down the rope that was hanging from the pulley over the front opening of the loft.
In the meantime, the other two soldiers entered the barn through the back door—they had become tired of waiting. “Where the fuck has everyone gone?” said one of the soldiers.
They stopped to look around. Directly ahead of them, they saw a pair of legs dangling down, above the barn's front entrance. The legs got lower and lower, and then exposed a body, a moment later, Matthew's head appeared.
“There he is,” said the other soldier.
Matthew turned to see the two soldiers. He did not hang around for a cup of tea and a chat. Instead, he let go of the rope, dropped the last two feet onto the ground, and made a run for it.
By the time the Sergeant had reached the loft, Matthew was running across the yard towards a collection of animal pens. He was being pursued by the other two soldiers.
Matthew slid to a halt at the animal pens, looked back towards the approaching soldiers, and then quickly surveyed the pens. The animal pens were all of the same design—a round wicker enclosure that was about three feet high, with four wooden posts protruding upwards, that held up a thatched roof. Each pen contained different animals. The closest pen to Matthew was a chicken pen.
Matthew scampered to the back of the chicken pen and quickly climbed up one of the posts. He pulled himself onto the pen's thatched roof and crawled upwards, until he was positioned at the apex. He was not sure if the soldiers had seen him climb the pen so he sat quiet, hoping they would pass by.
The two soldiers stopped at the chicken pen and paused. Unfortunately, they had seen Matthew go up the side of the pen and knew exactly where he was. They looked at each other for a few moments and then one of the soldiers gave an eye gesture towards the chicken pen.
The other soldier knew the meaning of the gesture and started to climb the wooden pole, wary of the flimsy nature of the structure. He pulled himself to the top of the pole and lifted his head up, to peer onto the sloping straw roof.
The sight of the soldier's head rising above the roof surprised Matthew—he had not escaped after all.
Matthew frantically scanned around, looking for another escape route, or at least for some form of defense. He spotted a pot of tar, slightly behind him, left there by a thatcher during repairs to the roof. Matthew desperately lunged at the pot and took a firm grasp of it. In the same flowing movement, he threw the pot at the peeping head of the soldier.
The pot shattered on the soldier's head, covering him in tar, causing him to fall backwards from his precarious position. The soldier landed heavily on the ground, but managed to sit up momentarily, staring aimlessly into space. His head was covered in black tar and small pieces of straw were stuck to the tar. A dirty face and straw hair; he was a scarecrow!
Although it was easy to tell he wasn't a real scarecrow—real scarecrows are usually better dressed, and more intelligent.
The soldier collapsed into unconsciousness.
The Sergeant finally appeared on the scene. He looked down at the “scarecrow” soldier in amazement.
“What happened to him?” he asked.
“Nothing Sarge, he was just clutching at straws,” replied the other soldier.
The Sergeant's eyes slowly rolled sideways, towards the soldier. He was not amused.
“Well, don't just stand there,” he commanded, and then pointed upwards. “Climb up and get him.”
The soldier started to climb as slowly as possible, the thought of impending doom was at the forefront of his small brain, but the large boot of the Sergeant was at the rear of it.
As the soldier approached, Matthew decided that it was a good time to move. He got up and leapt on to the roof of the next pen, landing just on the edge. Beneath him, pigs squealed vigorously; he had landed on a pigpen.
Fearful that Matthew might escape, the Sergeant ran across to the pigpen and started to climb it himself.
“Careful Sarge,” shouted the lone surviving soldier, aware of the Sergeant's heavy frame, and the delicate nature of the wood and straw pigpen.
As the Sergeant climbed, the surviving soldier moved to the rear of the pigpen—to cut off any possible escape by Matthew down the back.
A few moments later, they were joined by the “cowbell” soldier, who had now recovered from the blow to his head, although he still had ringing in his ears. The cowbell soldier positioned himself off to one side of the pigpen.
In the meantime, the Sergeant had made good progress and was getting more confident of his climbing abilities by the second. He had managed to pull himself onto the edge of the roof.
The Sergeant was on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. He steadied himself, and gave a menacing grin towards Matthew.
Matthew, edged his way backwards to the apex of the roof where he stopped; nowhere to go.
The Sergeant slowly reached by his side, drew his sword and raised it in front of himself, pointing it towards Matthew. He was too out of breath to say anything, so instead, he just glared at Matthew and waved his sword around.
“Stick him Sarge,” squeaked the scarecrow soldier who had just woken from his slumber.
The scarecrow soldier then staggered to the other side of the pigpen.
All three soldiers were now standing equally spaced around the pigpen, staring upwards in anticipation of the Sergeant's next move.
The Sergeant gingerly rose to his feet and began to walk very carefully, over the thatched roof towards Matthew.
Matthew was trapped.
“Now it's time to teach you a lesson boy,” growled the Sergeant between large puffs of air.
The Sergeant waved his sword around some more and stepped closer, but as he did so, there was a loud crack. The roof began to creak. The Sergeant looked down and then up, and then down again, a look of horror appeared on his face.
The thatched roof gave way to the enormous weight of the Sergeant, and he began to fall through the hole that had been created by his massive frame.
“Fuck!” he cried as he plunged downwards.
An instant later, the Sergeant landed on the floor below with a large splash, spraying what appeared to be mud everywhere and covering the faces of the onlooking soldiers. Around him, the pigs squealed.
The Sergeant laid motionless for a few seconds and then sat up, stunned by his experience. He sniffed the air several times and then slowly groaned, realizing that the mud was not just mud.
“Oh Shit!” he said.
“Pig shit, actually, Sarge,” coughed the scarecrow soldier, as he licked his lips clean.
All four soldiers stared upwards towards Matthew; hatred in their hearts, venom in their eyes, and shit on their faces.
Matthew was unable to retreat back the way he came due to the large hole in the roof that had been caused by the Sergeant's fall. There was no going forward either since this was the last in the line of animal pens. The soldiers may have been covered in shit but Matthew was now well and truly in it.
“Burn the Bastard down,” screamed the Sergeant as he rose to his feet and climbed out of the pigpen. He was fuming, in more ways than one.
The soldier who had been hit by the cowbell ran off in search of something to start the burning. He returned a few moments later with a burning torch made of wicker and tar that he had grabbed from a nearby Blacksmith's forge.
“Come down now boy or you can come down in flames,” shouted the Sergeant as the cowbell soldier waved the burning torch in the air. This was the Sergeant's last warning.
Matthew did not respond, he maintained his position.
The Sergeant gave a nod to the cowbell soldier.
The cowbell soldier lowered the torch towards the straw, but before he could light the straw, a voice from behind him boomed out, and stopped him motionless. The feeling of a very sharp pointed object pressing between the cheeks of his backside also had a significant bearing on his decision to not torch the pigpen.
“If you value the ability to choose when and where to crap, I wouldn't do that if I were you,” said the voice. It was a calm but confident voice.
The soldiers turned quickly to see who had dared to interfere. Well, three of them at least, the soldier holding the torch moved much slower, not wanting an accidental enema.
What they saw was a large man, over six feet tall, with what appeared to be an even larger sword. He was dressed in fine clothes, mostly black. His battle-hardened features made him an impressive sight, one that would surely raise the pulse of a lady or two.
Behind him, stood a magnificent white horse adorned with a variety of armaments. The most noticeable of these was a large shield painted with a black cross on a white background.
The stranger certainly displayed every appearance of a mighty Knight—especially with the large, intimidating sword!
Matthew edged forward and looked over the side of the roof. He was curious. Who was this stranger?
None of the soldiers recognized the stranger, or the coat of arms displayed prominently on his shield.
“Who the hell are you?” the Sergeant demanded in an arrogant tone.
“Just a peaceful traveler in search of a quiet life,” replied the stranger, “But sworn to fight injustice wherever I find it.”
“Well, I suggest you look for peace, quiet, and injustice somewhere else, since it will not be quiet here soon,” said the Sergeant with a sarcastic laugh.
The three accompanying soldiers all joined in the laughter.
“Four against one? It looks unfair and unjust to me,” replied the stranger. “Now, I think you should leave the boy alone and be on your way, in peace.”
The stranger's voice was calm, but firm; somehow Matthew could tell that the stranger was a man who knew how to deal with trouble.
The Sergeant glanced at his men. With a nod, they sprung into action and surrounded the stranger. To be precise, two of the soldiers, and the Sergeant sprung into action, the third soldier remained in a frozen position. He still had something pressing on his mind—the thought of that enema.
The stranger moved with alarming speed; he raised his sword and smashed the butt downwards onto the head of the stationary, enema-thinking, soldier.
“I hear bells again,” mumbled the soldier and then he collapsed to his knees.
Matthew did not hesitate. He leapt from the roof of the pigpen onto the back of the third soldier, felling him with a single blow to the back of his head.
The stranger spun quickly and confronted another soldier. He took two steps towards the soldier. The soldier cringed and raised his arms to protect himself, but the stranger suddenly stopped, and posed a question to the soldier, “Ever thought of becoming a farmer?”
The soldier looked confused and puzzled, “Huh?”
“Well, here's a couple of acres to get you started,” the stranger added.
The stranger then delivered a swift and mighty kick with his large right boot, which landed solidly between the soldier's legs.
The soldier gasped and stood absolutely frozen, for what seemed an eternity. He then collapsed, clutching onto his two acres.
The stranger quickly turned again. He faced the Sergeant. “Would you like to pit your sword against a Knight of the realm?” he asked.
The Sergeant paused to think for a moment. He scanned around to determine the status of his backup and decided it was probably wiser to decline.
“Okay, I'll let the boy off this time. I'm feeling pretty generous today,” said the Sergeant, “And besides, I would not want to hurt a Knight of the realm,” he added, sarcastically.
The Sergeant stared pitifully at his men and shook his head in disgust. “Get up you idiots,” he shouted.
The soldiers helped each other up and slowly made their retreat. They staggered back toward the Saracen's Arms, the Sergeant swearing to himself that he would remember this so called Knight.
Indeed, all of the soldiers would remember him for a long time to come, this remarkable man, dressed in black. This unknown Black Knight.
The stranger turned to Matthew.
“You did good boy,” he said nonchalantly. “What name do you go by?”
“Matthew, Sir.”
Matthew looked at the Black Knight in awe.
The Black Knight was about fifty years old but was in prime physical condition, a perfect fighting machine. He had barely broken a sweat during his brief encounter with the soldiers.
“Matthew. Fine name. How old are you boy?” he asked—the Black Knight was a man of few words.
“I'm eighteen, Sir.”
“Eighteen?” The Black Knight seemed surprised by Matthew's reply. “Why, a strapping lad like you should be training as a squire. You had a lot of courage to take on men like that.”
Matthew had dreamed of becoming a Knight one day, but being an Innkeeper's son was a severe handicap to his aspirations.
“I've always wanted to become a squire and hopefully one day, a Knight,” said Matthew, “But I don't know how, or even where to start, so I've been stuck here working with my father in the Saracen's Arms,” he added. The disappointment in Matthew's voice was obvious.
The Black Knight was confused—the Innkeeper was short, fat and totally bald, but Matthew was tall, athletic, and had all his own teeth. If the Black Knight had not just been told of their relationship, he would have sworn that Matthew came from a much different breeding stock.
“I've seen the Innkeeper. How could he possibly be your father?” the Black Knight asked.
Matthew gave a faint laugh. “Oh, he's not my real father, Sir. He adopted me when I was a baby, but he always treated me just like his own son. I could not have wished for a kinder father.”
The Black Knight looked more enlightened. He had always been a good judge of character and was relieved that his instincts were not wrong.
“But an Innkeeper I'm not cut out to be,” Matthew added with a wry smile.
The Black Knight thought for a moment.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I'm looking for a new squire, and I was impressed by your spunk and courage. What would you say if I asked you to be my squire?” he said.
Not only was the Black Knight a man of few words, he was also a very direct man.
Matthew had never expected such an offer, and did not know what to say. He managed to reply anyway, “I would be honored and grateful if you would take me Sir.”
“Well, that's settled then; we leave immediately. Collect what belongings you have and say your farewells,” said the Black Knight abruptly.
Matthew was surprised at the speed of the decision, and was not prepared for such a hasty departure. He also did not know how he would break the news to his father—but he was not going to pass up on the opportunity of a lifetime.
Matthew headed back to the inn to speak with his father and collect his belongings. He walked slowly so he could think about what he would say; how would he break the news?
He need not have worried.
A few minutes later, Matthew emerged from the inn. He carried a few personal belongings wrapped in an old blanket. The Innkeeper was by his side.
“I always knew you would leave one day, you never was cut out to be an Innkeeper,” the Innkeeper said. “Besides, you cause too much trouble and cost me good business,” he added with a smile and a laugh.
The Innkeeper had given Matthew his blessing, removing any feelings of guilt he might have had in leaving. After all, the Innkeeper had done so much for him.
“I promise to come back and see you soon,” said Matthew as he embraced his father. He was happy to be setting off on an adventure, but would leave with some sadness in his heart.
The Innkeeper knew that this day would eventually come and had resigned himself to that fact a long time ago. He had encouraged Matthew to seek his own way, but deep down, he felt much sorrow and some fear for the uncertain future that Matthew faced. He was glad however, that he was handing over the care of his son to a Knight of obvious courage and valor—Matthew would be in good hands.
The Black Knight was waiting outside the barn, across the street. “Come boy,” he called out.
The Black Knight waved at Matthew, beckoning him to the barn.
Matthew walked quickly across the road and as he approached, the Black Knight went inside the barn. When Matthew reached the barn, he followed the Black Knight inside.
Inside the barn, the Black Knight stood beside two horses. He gestured towards a small gray horse. “This is yours,” he remarked nonchalantly, while mounting his own horse with great style, perfected with many years of practice.
Matthew didn't know what to say and stood mesmerized, staring at the horse.
“Well, don't just look at it. Get on it,” said the Black Knight.
The Black Knight began to make his way out of the barn, leaving Matthew grappling with his new steed.
Matthew managed to mount the horse and somehow make it go forward, although he was not sure how much influence he had in that decision. He had ridden only twice before, when he had helped the blacksmith last summer. On those occasions, the blacksmith rode in front and held the reigns of Matthew's horse while Matthew just concentrated on staying on—not much of a preparation for his new adventure.
Moments later they were on their way.
The Assassins
~ ~
Back at the Castle, the Queen was still in a furious state. By now, the shock had worn off.
“Get out! Get out, all of you! Get out!” she screamed.
Everyone started to leave the room; only Princess Sarah remained behind.
“Where's my personal guards?” shouted the Queen.
“Mother!” gasped Princess Sarah, concerned by the Queen's order. She had heard many unsavory rumors about the Queen's personal guards. Her concerns were valid. They were no ordinary guards, they were all convicted murderers. The Queen had pardoned them and then employed them as assassins, thinly disguised as personal guards. It was well known that they did the Queen's dirty work.
The Queen was quick to dismiss any anxiety that the Princess might have about the personal guards. “To protect you during these difficult times,” she explained.
The Queen pouted her lips and tilted her head slightly to one side, trying to fake a look of concern, but her protruding lips just made her look like a fish. “I think it's best that you retire to your chambers now my dear. You will need plenty of rest to get through this terrible and sad loss.”
“Don't patronize me Mother, I ...”
Princess Sarah was interrupted by a scuffling sound that came from behind the Queen. She leaned to one side—so that she could see past the Queen, and looked over towards the source of the noise. The Queen turned her head around, back towards the balcony.
The Queen's personal guards had arrived. They had climbed up and onto the balcony, where they now waited. To be exact, six assassins were skulking in the shadows, waiting for their deadly instructions.
One of the assassin's took a step forward, out of the shadow and into the light, causing Princess Sarah to take a step backwards, shocked by his appearance.
The assassin was a large overweight man, weighing about two hundred and eighty pounds. He had an insane looking grin across his face that exposed a row of rotten teeth, and he only had one eye, with a scar around the socket—a reminder of an assassination attempt that did not go according to plan. In truth, very few of his assassinations went according to plan. His most favorite murderous techniques were strangulation and stabbing. He was called Godfrey, and was the assassins’ unofficial leader.
Princess Sarah gasped. “Mother,” she said quietly through her teeth.
The Queen raised her hands to stop the Princess. “I'll hear no more of it, we need to think of your safety. Now, off you go my dear,” replied the Queen, waving the Princess away.
Princess Sarah stormed out of the room, disappointed that her mother, yet again, treated her like a child. She often doubted her mother, but very rarely had she questioned the Queen about anything. She had deliberately kept out of her mother's business, thinking it was best that she did not know. Yet, somehow, everything seemed to be different now. She was not sure about anything anymore. What was her mother up to?
The moment Princess Sarah was out of sight, the Queen snapped her fingers and signaled towards the assassins waiting on the balcony.
The rest of the assassins slowly emerged from the shadows. They were a strange collection of desperate men, and although they had their own peculiarities, they shared a common characteristic—a burn mark around their necks where the hangman nearly succeeded in eliminating them. They were not the kind of men you would like to meet in a dark alley one evening.
Their range of intelligence was fairly evenly distributed, in all cases, low. They also had one other thing in common, they loved their job.
The Queen looked perturbed; she counted only five assassins but before she could ask, Big John pushed his way through his comrades and appeared at the front.
Big John was only four feet and ten inches tall and had been obscured from view by the other assassins. Now that he was visible, the Queen counted six.
It was hard to imagine such a small man as a ruthless killer, but ruthless he was. A dagger in the back—for most, that meant the lower back, was his preferred means of dealing with his victims.
Behind Big John was Little Eric, although he was far from little, being six feet three inches tall.
Little Eric leaned forward and rubbed the top of Big John's shiny bald head, making a squeaking noise as he rubbed. Big John turned and angrily knocked Little Eric's arm away. “You moron,” said Big John. He spoke with a strong lisp, a severe speech impediment he had suffered from all his life.
Little Eric uttered a low pitched laugh and smiled a stupid, toothless grin. He was a feebleminded, crosseyed, man—an appearance that often caused others to make the mistake of thinking he was a gentle giant. Gentle, however, he was not, he was often involved in brutal fights, many resulting in death. The numerous fights accounted for his lack of teeth—of which he still possessed two.
“Get here,” snapped the Queen, her patience already wearing thin.
The assassin's quickly gathered around her.
“Right, now listen carefully,” she said as she stared at Roger, one of the assassins.
She paused for a moment, wondering if Roger was awake, or even alive. He weighed less than one hundred pounds and had such a gaunt face, with deep sunken eyes, that it was not easy to tell. Indeed, the other assassins had, on many occasions, thought he was dead, when in reality, he was just sleeping. Clearly, Roger was not going to win many fights to the death. Consequently, unless he could surprise his victims with a knife in the back, he usually preferred a more cunning method of extinction, such as poison.
“Is he with us?” the Queen asked.
“He's fine your Highness, he's always like that,” lisped Big John.
Roger slowly turned his head to face the Queen and gave a low grunt of acknowledgment, an indication that he was, in fact, awake—and alive.
The Queen returned to the matter at hand and gave the assassins her instructions. She explained precisely how to implement her carefully thought out plan of action. Her plan was not too complicated.
“Kill the Bastard,” she uttered. A nice, simple, and easy to understand plan, precise and perfect.
The assassins thought about the plan for a moment, so as to absorb the fine details and complexities.
Alan, glanced at Frank, his eyes focusing on Frank's large, red, bulbous nose—it was hard not to look at it, and they nodded at each other, as if they understood what was being asked of them.
“Kill, kill, kill,” chanted Frank and Alan together.
“No, not just kill,” shouted the Queen, frustrated that her instructions were not understood.
“Kill the Bastard,” she added, stressing each word, particularly the last two.
The Queen had learnt over many years that the assassins had many uses and performed their functions very well, but rocket scientists they were not, and so it was always best to be very specific with instructions.
Seemingly from nowhere, from one corner of the room, the Queen's personal advisor approached—he had remained unobserved, quietly lurking in the shadows, when everyone had left the room earlier. He was no more than a lackey and sycophant who agreed with everything the Queen said; the word 'no' was not in his vocabulary. When anyone entered the room, he had a habit of fading into the shadows and corners so as not to be noticed—a talent now verified be his sudden appearance.
The Queen's personal advisor gave each assassin a piece of parchment. Drawn on each parchment was a rudimentary map, showing the location of the Saracen's Arms. There was also a drawing showing three matchstick figures; a man, a woman, and a boy. An arrow was pointing to the boy. The drawing of the boy had a sword sticking out of it.
Godfrey looked at the parchment and then looked up at the Queen's personal advisor—the Queen's personal advisor was so skinny that he looked like one of the matchstick figures drawn on the parchment, although it was hard to capture the meanness and scrawniness, or the hooked nose, of the advisor in such a simple drawing.
Still, simple, and clear enough that even Godfrey and the other assassins could understand.
The assassins studied the pictures carefully for a few moments and then grunted acknowledgment that their task was clear.
“Now go and do your duty,” commanded the Queen.
She pointed to the door.
The assassins left via the balcony.
The Queen closed her eyes and sighed.
The assassins jostled with each other on their way to the balcony, falling over each other as they made their exit.
“Look out!” shouted Godfrey.
As the assassins clambered over the balcony, Little Eric accidentally pushed Big John. Big John lost his balance and fell from the balcony to the ground below.
“Aaargh!” squealed Big John as he fell.
A moment later, there was a loud thud. Big John hit the ground below.