The Baker's Boy (6 page)

"So, Jack,
are you willing to do this?" Baralis' voice was a honeyed spoon.

"Yes,
sir."

"Excellent.
You will start today. Be at my chambers at two hours past noon. I will require
your presence for several hours every day. You will not give up your kitchen
duties."

Jack could no
longer see Baralis; the shadows hooded the man's face. "One more thing,
Jack, and then you may go. I require your complete discretion. I trust you will
tell no one of what you do. The master baker will provide you with an alibi if
you need one." Baralis slipped away into the darkness between the brewing
vats. There was not a sound to be heard upon his departure.

Jack was shaking
from head to foot. His knees were threatening a mutiny and his arm felt as if
it had been keelhauled. He sat down on the cellar floor, suddenly tired and
weak. The stone was damp, but the unpleasantness went unnoticed as he wondered
about what had happened. Why would the king's chancellor choose him?

Coming to the
lofty conclusion that the world of grown men made little sense, Jack curled up
into a ball and drifted off to sleep.

It was a perfect
morning for a hunt. The first frost of winter hardened the ground underfoot and
crisped the undergrowth. The sun provided light but not warmth, and the air was
still and clear.

King Lesketh felt
the familiar knot of tension in his stomach that always accompanied the hunt.
He welcomed the feeling; it would keep an edge to his judgment and a keenness
to his eye. The small party had set off for the forest before dawn and now, as
they approached their destination, the horses grew skittish and the hounds
barked noisily, eager to begin. The king briefly looked over his companions.
They were good men, and the fear of the hunt was a bond between them on this
fine day: Lords Carvell, Travin, Rolack and Maybor, the houndsmen, and a
handful of archers.

He did not miss
the presence of his son. The king had felt relief when Kylock had failed to
show at the predawn meet. The boy was turning out to be a brilliant sportsman,
but his cruelty toward his prey troubled the king. Kylock would toy with his
game, needlessly wounding and dismembering--trying to inflict as much pain as
possible before death. More disturbing than that was the effect his son had on
those around him. People were guarded and uneasy in the boy's presence. The
hunt would be more joyous in his absence.

The party waited
as the hounds were loosed. Minutes passed as the dogs searched for quarry. The
king's hounds had been specially trained to ignore smaller game such as rabbit
and fox. They would only follow the bigger prize: the wild boar, the stag, and
the bristled bear. The hunting party waited, tension written on every man's
face, breath whitening in the cold air. Before too long, the baying of the
hounds changed and became a savage beckoning. All eyes were on the king. He let
out a fierce cry, "To the hunt!" and galloped deep into the forest,
his men following him. Sound blasted the air: the thunder of hooves, the blare
of horn, and the yelping of hounds.

The hunt was long
and dangerous. It was difficult to maneuver horse around tree and over ditch.
The hounds led the party on a twisting path into the heart of the wood. The
trees became so dense that the party was often forced to slow down. The king
hated to be slowed. The cry of the hounds urged him to go faster, to take
risks, to pursue his game at any cost. Lord Rolack was at his flank and
threatened to take the lead. Lesketh dug spur into horseflesh and pushed ahead.
The men were gaining on the hounds. Over stream and fallen log they leapt,
through glade and brush they charged. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, they caught
a glimpse of a huge and fast-moving form.

"A
boar!" cried the king exultantly. That single vision had sent a shiver of
fear through him: the beast was massive, much larger than was usually found in
these parts.

The horsemen
closed in on hound and boar, and the archers loosed their first arrows. Most
went wide as the boar dived once more into the bush. However, when the boar was
spotted again, it was sporting two arrows: one on its neck, the other in its
haunch. The king knew that the first hits would actually quicken the boar,
filling it with a dangerous blind rage. He turned his horse quickly and pursued
the game deeper into the bush.

The hounds smelled
blood and were wild with excitement, their cries reaching a fever pitch. The
men responded to the sound; blood had been drawn, the hunt had now truly begun.

The king had no
time for thought. He survived on his reflexes and those of his horse, which
seemed to know when to jump and turn without any prompting from its master. The
boar was sighted again. This time its escape route was cut off by a deep gully.
The archers fired once more and the boar was hit a further three times. The
beast let out a piercing squeal. One of the arrows went astray, striking a
hound and puncturing its eye. In the confusion, the boar turned on the party
and blazed a path through them. The king was furious. "Put that hound out
of its misery!" he said through clenched teeth. He spun his horse round,
drawing blood with his spurs, and charged after the game.

The boar did not
slow down. Pursued by the hounds, it fled into the depths of the forest,
leaving a trail of blood in its path.

Finally the boar
was cornered by the hounds; it had run toward a still pond and could go no
further. The dogs kept it from moving by forming a half-circle around it. The
mighty beast kicked at the earth, preparing to charge. The men readied their
weapons. The king moved closer, his eyes never leaving the beast. One wrong
move, one hesitation could lead to death. Lesketh knew he had only an instant
before the boar charged. He neared the beast, raising his spear and, with all
the force in his body, thrusting the weapon deep into the boar's flank. The
beast sounded a chilling death cry and hot blood erupted from the wound.

One moment later,
all the lords were upon the beast, stabbing it countless times with their long
spears. The boar's blood flowed onto the ground and down to the pond. The
houndsmen called the dogs off; the party was jubilant.

"Let's have
its balls off!" cried Carvell.

"Off with its
balls," repeated Maybor. "Who will do the honors?"

"You should,
Maybor. It's rumored you're skilled in the art of castration." Everyone
laughed, relieving the tension of the hunt.

Maybor took his
dagger from its sheath and dismounted his horse. "By Bore! I don't think
I've ever seen such huge balls."

"I thought
you had a looking glass, Maybor!" quipped Rolack. The lords guffawed
loudly. With one quick slice, Maybor relieved the dead beast of its testicles
and held them up for his companions to admire.

"On second
thought," he said with mock seriousness, "I think mine are
bigger!"

As the men
chuckled in response, the king thought he heard a familiar whirring sound. The
next instant, he was knocked off his horse by the force of something hitting
his shoulder. As he fell he saw what it was ... an arrow. The instant of
recognition was followed by the forewarning of danger. It didn't feel right.
He'd been hit by arrows before and knew well the sting of impact. The sting was
there, but there was more-almost as if something was burrowing into his flesh.
A thin but biting pain gripped his body and he passed out.

Bevlin awoke in a
bad mood: he'd had a terrible night's rest. He'd slept in the kitchen amongst
his books. He wondered where his good sense had been-here he was, as old as the
hills, barely able to walk, and yet he'd offered his bed to the young and
abundantly healthy knight. He himself had slept on the hard wood of the kitchen
table. Of course he could have slept in the spare room, but the roof leaked
above the bed, and he'd reached the age now where he'd rather be dry than
comfortable.

His spirits picked
up somewhat when he discovered his visitor was cooking breakfast. "How did
you manage to do that without waking me?" he demanded testily.

"It was easy,
Bevlin. You were fast asleep." Bevlin did not like the idea of this
handsome young man seeing him asleep in such an undignified manner. He was
willing to forgive him, though, as the food he was preparing smelled delicious.

"There was no
need for you to do this. I would have cooked breakfast."

"I
know," said Tawl. "That was what I was afraid of." Bevlin
decided to let the remark pass without comment. The young man had good cause to
be wary of his cooking. "What are you making?"

"Hamhocks
stuffed with mushrooms and spiced ale."

"Sounds good,
but could you grease the ham up a little? It looks a smidgen dry to me."
The wiseman had a liking for grease; it helped food slip down his rough old
throat more easily. "So tell me, where does a fine man such as yourself
pick up the skills of the hearth? Last time I heard they didn't teach cooking
at Valdis."

Tawl's smile was
sad. "My mother died in birthing while I was still a boy. She left me two
young sisters and a babe in arms to care for." The knight hesitated,
looking deep into the fire, his face an unreadable mask.

When he spoke
again his tone had changed: it was bright with forced cheer. "So I leamt
to cook." He shrugged. "It made me popular with my fellow knights at
Valdis, and I earned more than a few coppers roasting up pig's liver in the
early hours of the morning."

Bevlin wasn't a
man who valued tact highly and curiosity always got the better of him. "So
where are your family now?" he asked. "I suppose your father will be
looking after your sisters."

"Suppose
nothing about my family, wiseman. "

Bevlin was shocked
at the bitter fury in the knight's voice. He lifted his arm as a beginning to
an apology, but was denied first say.

"Bevlin,"
said Tawl, his face turned back toward the fire, "forgive my anger. I
..."

"Speak no
more, my friend," interrupted the wiseman. "There is much in all of
us that bears no questioning."

A candle length
later, when the two men had finished eating and were sitting in the warm
kitchen drinking mulled ale, Bevlin carefully opened a fat, dusty book.
"This, Tawl," he said, gesturing the yellowing pages, "is my
most precious possession. It is a copy of Marod's Book of Words. Not any old
copy, mind you, but one faithfully transcribed by the great man's devoted
servant, Galder. Before his master died, Galder made four exact copies of Marod's
great lifework. This is one of those four copies."

Bevlin's old
fingers traced the inscription on the sheep's-hide cover. "One can tell
it's an original Galder copy if one looks very closely at the pages: Marod was
so poor near the end that his servant couldn't afford to buy new parchment and
was forced to reuse existing papers. Galder would wash the ink off the paper
with a solution of rainwater and cow's urine, he would then leave the paper in
the sun to dry. If you look carefully, you can still see the ghosts of some of
those previous documents."

Tawl studied the
page that Bevlin opened: the old man pointed out the merest whisper of words
and letters lying beneath the text. "Of course, the unfortunate fact is
that the very solution used to soak the pages clean eats away at the nature of
them, making them brittle and delicate. I fear it won't be long before it is
rendered unreadable and will only be good as a relic in a collection. That will
be a very sad thing indeed, for Marod's book holds much of relevance for those
who live today." The wiseman closed the book.

"But there
must be thousands of copies of the Book of Words around. Every priest and
scholar in the Known Lands must have one," Tawl said.

Bevlin shook his
head sadly. "Unfortunately copies are often vastly different from the
original. There is not one scribe who failed to alter Marod's words in some
subtle way, changing ideas to suit their beliefs or those of their patrons,
omitting sections they considered immoral or insignificant, altering verses
they thought were miswritten or frivolous or just plain dull." Bevlin
sighed heavily, the weariness of age marked clearly on his pale features.
"Every translator's interpretation minutely altered the essence of Marod's
words and prophesies. In consequence, through the course of centuries, his work
has been irrevocably changed. The priests and scholars of which you speak may
well have books of the same name, but they are not the same work."

"For all I
know, the other three Galder copies are lost or destroyed: I may be the only
person in possession of the true word of Marod." The wiseman finished the
last of his ale and placed the empty goblet on the table. "It is a source
of much sadness to me."

Bevlin looked
thoughtfully into the face of his companion. Tawl was young, maybe too young to
undertake what would be asked of him. The wiseman sighed heavily. He knew the
immensity of the task at hand. This young man before him, strong and golden and
self-assured, had his whole life in front of him, a life that could be blighted
by a fruitless search. Bevlin extinguished the candleswith his fingers. What
could he do? He had no choice; no one had asked him if he wanted the
responsibility for all that was to come. All that could be done was to give the
young man a choice-he could at least do that.

The wiseman held
his hands closely together to stop them from shaking and looked firmly into the
blue eyes of the knight. "I expect you must be wondering what all this has
to do with you coming here?"

"What you
doin' here, boy? This ain't no place for the likes of you." The guard's
voice echoed through the stone halls of the castle.

"I need to
get to the nobles quarters," said Jack.

"The nobles
quarters! The nobles quarters-what business could you have in the nobles
quarters? Get going, you little snot."