King Balfur III sat high atop his throne of gold and silver. In front of him was a large, jeweled table, filled to capacity with geese and turkey and puddings of all kinds. The king was stuffing his face regally, not bothering to wipe the crumbs from his facial hair, for napkins only slowed him down, and his midday meal was very important to him.
A jester was dancing in front of him, juggling five razor-sharp knives high up toward the gold and crystal ceiling, trying desperately to attract the king’s attention. But the king paid him no mind. He was bored with jesters already, and besides, they only distracted him from his true passion, which was food.
The king was indeed a great man – in size, that is. His belly was as big as a barrel, fat and round; his legs and arms like rolls of jelly. Even his face, bearded and red in the cheeks, was nearly twice that of most other men’s. He was not a handsome man, but not unpleasant either. His teeth were perfect works of ivory, rare in his day, shining out from under his dark mustache. He took pride in them, cleansing them after every meal, and insisted that they were the finest in the kingdom. Certainly, he got the most use out of them – a factor to which the jester could attest.
What a sight the two were! – One big, fat, and lazy, the other tall, thin, and agile. One couldn’t imagine a more contrasting spectacle. And yet, each was happy in their respective positions: the king loved being king, and the jester was quite content with being a jester, though he did sometimes wish he could bop the king over the head with one of his éclairs. The only thing that bothered the jester was the fact that he worked so very hard at his profession, constantly devising new tricks for the king’s amusement - and yet the king never seemed to notice, even when the jester would perform the most dangerous of stunts. All the king ever seemed to take notice of was his food.
But the jester was determined. What was the point of being a jester if one could not entertain? And so it was that he decided to add a sixth razor-sharp knife to his already incredibly dangerous exhibition. It was a daring attempt, and it might certainly have worked out, had not the door burst open and distracted him. Suddenly, the jester lost control. He ducked and dove, as each knife flew off in a separate direction, with one – “Aah!” - landing right in the very piece of prime rib that the king was about to sink his teeth into!
“Runlin!” the king scolded. “What’s the matter with you?”
Poor Runlin was about to offer his apologies, when he saw the king pull a knife out from beside his plate. “I have my own knife right here,” he said, flashing it for him to see. “And why are you sneaking up on me anyhow?”
He took Runlin’s knife out of his prime rib and placed it down on the table, turning his attention once more to his delicious meal.
What could the poor jester do at that point but pick up his belongings and take his leave? On his way out, he passed the short, squat figure of Shoover, the king’s personal assistant, who held a large scroll in his hands. He nodded to him, as if to say, “Good luck,” then promptly made his exit, his knives, hats, and shoes all pressed up against his chest.
“What is it?” the king demanded, once the jester had exited. “You’re disturbing my meal.”
“Yes,” said Shoover, approaching, “and very sorry I am, indeed, Your Highness. But there is a matter of the utmost importance to be tended to.”
“Very well,” the king said, tearing into his steak. “State your business.”
“We have received a letter, Your Highness, from the Royal King Harris of Belsden…It reads as follows…” – Shoover unraveled the scroll and began:
“‘To his Royal Highness, King Balfur III of Dermer:
“‘I have written to warn you of a common enemy shared by both the people of Belsden and the people of the United Land of Dermer. His name is Taylor James, and he poses a great threat to us all. This man, this tyrant, has falsely made claims to my throne, and has terrorized my people in his attempts to seize power. We have scoured the land in search of this vandalous miscreant, but now I fear that he may have crossed the border into Dermer, most probably with the intention of stirring-up trouble amongst your people. If you should catch him, I ask that you deliver him back into our hands, so that we may hang him in the public square, as he so well deserves.
“‘If we can band together against such tyrants, then truly there is hope for an ever-lasting peace between our country and yours. If there is any way in which I can be of assistance to you, please feel free to contact me by messenger.
“‘Your Peaceful Ally,
King Harris of Belsden’”
“Well, break my back!” proclaimed the king. “What a situation this is! A snake of a king appealing to me to return to him a rodent of a criminal! Can you believe it?”
“I did find it ironic, Sire,” Shoover admitted.
The king leaned back in thought for a moment, rubbing at his beard.
“Well,” he said finally, “if even that rascal – What do they call him? The Dark Duke? – If even he considers this man, this – What did you say his name was?”
“Taylor James, Sire.”
“Right. Anyway: If even the Dark Duke considers him a threat, then truly he must be dangerous, and we can’t have a person like that running around our kingdom, now, can we?”
“Indeed, you are right, Your Highness.”
“Of course I am.”
“As usual, Sire.”
“Good. Then we are agreed: If this Taylor James is in Dermer, we must capture him and send him back to the Dark Duke, who I’m certain will make good work of him. Get the word out then to all soldiers and constables, that should they find and arrest the vagabond, Taylor James, they shall receive a reward of fifty gold nuggets.” The king shifted in his chair. “I don’t like rebel-rousers.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” said Shoover. “It will be done immediately.”
Having settled the matter thus, Shoover bowed his head respectfully, then turned and quietly made his exit. The king, meanwhile, rather pleased with himself for his incredible decision-making capabilities, tended once again to his prime rib, which he cut into in hearty delight.
But barely had a single morsel entered into his mouth, than did the door come open once again, and in entered the obsequious Shoover, his face stern as usual.
“What is it now?” the king demanded.
Shoover bowed.
“It seems, Your Highness,” he began, stepping before the ungracious regent, “that we have found him.”
“Who?”
“Taylor James, Your Excellency.”
“Already?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well, where is he?”
“He’s – ah – a-he-hem” - Shoover coughed into his hand – “He’s – ah - here.”
“Here?” cried the king, in utter disbelief.
“Ah - Yes, Your Highness.”
“In the palace?”
“The very place.”
The king slapped down his hand upon the table.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” he cried. “Who captured him?”
“I don’t believe he was captured, Sire,” Shoover reported. “He seems to have come rather on his own free will. He says that he wishes to speak to you, if Your Highness would permit.”
“My God,” the king remarked. Again his hand found his chin.
“Should I show him in, Your Highness?”
“Certainly not alone,” the king said, “he could be dangerous. Put him under arrest first. Then, if he submits to us peacefully, I will agree to see him, I suppose – so long as he is escorted by an armed guard of no less than a dozen men.”
“Very well, Sire.”
He bowed once again, then stepped out to follow the king’s instructions.
What a man this Taylor James is, the king thought, to come all the way here and have me lose my appetite. He must be very brave. Or very stupid. Or crazy, even. Either way, I must be on my very best guard; for desperate men do desperate things.
The door opened and
twelve soldiers, each one armed with sword and shield, entered and split promptly into two groups of six. One group lined up, shoulder to shoulder, on the king’s right, while the other took its place upon his left, the two groups facing each other, man to man. A moment later two more soldiers entered, a tall, strong man with black hair between them. He had his hands tied fast, but his eyes were free and clear, and for some reason they made the king feel rather uncomfortable.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” said the man. “My name is Taylor James, and I greet you from one king to another.”
“I greet you back,” said the king, “but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, young man. I have reason to believe that you are nothing more than a petty criminal, and I dare ask why you have come to see me this day.”
“I’m afraid that Your Highness has been misled,” said Taylor. “It is the Dark Duke, Harris of Belsden, who is the true criminal.”
“What a coincidence!” cried the king, taking up a piece of steak. “It is that very same person who has warned me of you!” He lifted the steak to his mouth.
“And do you trust him?” Taylor asked.
The king shot him a cold glare. He put the piece of steak back down.
“What is it that you want, Mr. James?”
“A moment of your time, is all. If you can spare it.”
The king sighed. He scraped some pudding into his mouth.
“Be concise,” he said. “I haven’t all the day.” Lie.
“Would it be possible,” Taylor asked, nodding his head backward, “to be rid of my bonds while we converse? It would be of great comfort to me.”
“I’m sorry,” said the king, taking up a leg of turkey, “but I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. The answer is No. Now get on with it.”
“Fine, then,” Taylor said, “I shall start by telling you my life story…”
“Oh, swell!” quipped the king. “Any chance that you can sum that up in about two minutes?”
“I’ll try.”
“Fine. Start now, then. I have some serious business to tend to” – lie #2 – “and I don’t have time to waste.” – lie #3
Taylor straightened himself as best he could. When he spoke, it was in a clear, deep voice that echoed throughout the chamber:
“I was born to the Queen Beatrice of Belsden,” he said, “but was forced to hide away because the Dark Duke, who is currently king, wanted me dead. I have with me a royal cloth that testifies to this. I was taken by a kind, loving couple to the country of Monastero, where I spent my childhood, unaware of my origins. By the time that I came to realize who I was, the Dark Duke had already been in power for many years, oppressing the Belsdanian people. He used their money to finance an army for himself, and when he attacked the tiny nation of Sarbury, I was one of the people called to action to protect the Monasterian border. The Dark Duke did not attack us that day, but eventually he was to return, and I and Robert of Roth were forced to lead an army of soldiers and villagers into the woods. From there we continued to fight the Dark Duke and his oppressive army. But now he has captured my one true love, my family, and many others, and if we do not act soon, all of them will surely perish. The Dark Duke is an ambitious man, Your Majesty, and I fear for you if you do not recognize this. If you help me, I will guarantee a lasting peace when I am put back on the throne. The Dark Duke, however, will only look to gain for himself. It is a choice between peace and freedom, and fear and oppression.”
The king had listened with the utmost intensity, even being so kind as to stop in his eating. His eyes became hard, his pupils narrow. He stared out toward the ceiling, rubbing at his chin as realms of thought bounced around in his head.
“All right,” he said at last, “back to dinner. Show him away. To the dungeon, if you would.”
“Wait!” Taylor cried, as the guards took him up under the arms. “Don’t do this! You must help me.”
“Bye-bye, now,” said the king, waving his hand. He took a bite of ham as his men began to drag Taylor back and out of the room.
Suddenly, though, the sound of ropes ripping could be heard. When the king looked up, his eyes drew back in fear; for he saw the arms of the beastly vagabond waving savagely through the air. He struck one sentry in the head with his fist, then spun round and caught another under the chin with his elbow.
“Get him!” the king yelled.
Two more sentries rushed up, only to meet with much the same results. Taylor ducked and struck, then somersaulted. He jolted up, flinging his body into yet another, and rising quickly, only to be forced to the ground again when a sword came whizzing by his ear. Seeing that his path was clear, he recovered fast to his feet, and rushed for the unguarded king.
Balfur cringed in terror, but the savage man stopped before him. He took hold of the table, and brought his eyes down to meet the king’s own.
“Listen to me!” he said, the sentries rushing up behind him. “Right now the Dark Duke is massing an enormous army on your border. If you don’t believe me, you can check for yourself.” – the men were trying desperately to pry him away from the table, but Taylor held strong – “If we don’t stop him,” he continued, “by next week it will be him who sits up here, and you who sits shackled in the dungeon.”
Finally, Taylor gave way, and the men were able to pull him back.
“One more thing, Your Highness…” he said, as they began to drag him away, “…I’ll have you know that they don’t serve meat in the Tower. Only gruel.”
The king’s eyes watered. Slowly, he put up his hand.
“Wait,” he said.
Chapter 41
The Ugliest Army