by James Van Pelt
in Issue 66, July 2017
Rudd sat uneasily on the high throne. A line of supplicants with a scroll or basket or bag in hand and an earnest look about them stretched from the dais’s base to the towering oak doors.
Terryn, the Lord High Steward, put his hand on Rudd’s shoulder, then bent to whisper in his ear, “Your next case concerns Master Craftsman Kelvin who believes the shipwrights guild has not paid him for his labors.”
The long-jowled man standing before them wore a work-scarred cloak and carried an intricately carved ship under his arm. “Your majesty, I have been grievously injured while doing the kingdom’s bidding. Five times I have submitted bills for work I have delivered, and five times no payment has followed. My men cannot continue to labor if we are not paid.” Kelvin bowed low, placed the ship at Rudd’s feet, and then backed away.
Clearly, whoever built the model had spent numerous hours on it. Tiny lines ran to the masts. An iron anchor dangled from a silver chain like a delicate pendant.
Rudd whispered back to Lord Terryn. “I am not wise in these matters. I have seen only seventeen summers. Can I command the shipwrights to pay Master Kelvin?”
“It’s a complicated issue, sire. Your chancellors will handle this business.”
Rudd sighed. Terryn answered all his questions with “It’s complicated, sire.”
“Being king is different than you expected, I’m sure,” said Terryn.
“Is this what his majesty does every day? It seems . . .” Rudd could see hours of listening to the people’s complaints before him. “ . . . tedious.”
“The subjects hold their sovereign in the highest regard. When they bring concerns to the throne, they trust wisdom and fairness will fall in their favor, but the child king does not hold court. He is, after all, only ten years old. He will learn these duties in time.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Rudd had been so excited when he’d won the lottery to become king for a day, a once every five years event that elevated one commoner to the high seat. The king’s tailor came to Rudd’s farm and fitted him for a proper gown, while a chamberlain outlined Rudd’s schedule. Rudd’s parents celebrated his luck with a party for locals, including Faylinn, the small-holder’s daughter from Asheby beyond the mill. She held his hand between one of the dances and let him fetch her drink from the feasting table.
She’d said to him during the last dance, “When you are king, will your wish become my command?” and then she had whirled away with a wink and a laugh. Rudd had difficulty sleeping in the nights since, wondering what she meant.
The next petitioner was an elderly woman who left a basket of bread. She complained that her daughters were harassed by the king’s guard when they came to her tavern.
A minor duke (which is what Lord Terryn called him) pleaded for the king to find a good marriage for his son, and he left an intricate pewter mug as a token.
A carpenter asked that he be appointed to the royal court, for, as he said, “The king deserves the best cabinets in the kingdom.” He added a polished jewelry box lined with purple velvet to the pile of offerings.
“They know that I can not actually help them, don’t they?”
“They are lucky that anyone sits in the throne at all. They could make their cases to a court recorder. Their pleas are to the position, not the man, and you truly are king for the day. Your pronouncements will be obeyed.”
“So, if I told the carpenter he had a job in the castle, he would be hired?”
Terryn smiled, a greasy and alarming expression on the old official’s face. “Technically, yes, but when the king returned tomorrow, he could and probably would remove him. I don’t advise you make policy announcements except what we give you for ceremony. I believe you will be christening a ship this afternoon. Won’t that be memorable?”
The next plea came from a woman dressed in farmer’s clothes. Her best outfit, surely, but dowdy compared to the fine lady’s dresses and elegant formal wear of the court. She reminded Rudd of his mother, the same work-hardened hands and sun-darkened face. “My village sent me, sire. Our crops were poor last year and will be poor again. The land is bad. But we are taxed the same as our fortunate neighbors whose fields overflowed last fall, and whose crops are healthy this summer. We ask for relief.” The basket she carried beneath her arm held a large and heavy jug. She balanced the load on her hip. Rudd suspected it might be filled with mead, a true luxury where he came from.
“Thank you,” said Terryn. “We will take your gift and consider your request.”
The woman’s face sagged, her shoulders drooped and she turned to go.
“Wait,” said Rudd. “Have you sowed the same crop every year?”
Serverin paused in his hand-waving invitation for the next person to step forward. “Sire?” he said. “We have many people to receive before our noon meal.”
“We have grown barley for as long as I can remember,” said the woman. “Our barley was once famous in the kingdom.”
Rudd pulled his shoulder out from under Terryn’s grip.
“In my village, we raised only wheat, and the crops grew thin, but we switched to rye and the fields rewarded us richly. Maybe you should let the barley rest for a season or two.”
The court noblemen and ladies, sensing a change in the routine, ceased their quiet conversation and turned toward Rudd, while the line of supplicants waited expectantly. The farmer’s voice sounded clearly throughout.
“Some in the village have argued as such, sire, and I will take them your advice, but that does not help us for this winter where we will have neither crops in storage nor money to purchase goods since, as I said, we will owe the tax.”
Rudd caught Terryn’s eye. The old man shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Lord Terryn, see that this woman’s village is not taxed this year.” The young man swallowed hard. “And give her enough gold so that she may purchase stores for the village for the coming winter.”
“Your majesty,” said Terryn, nearly choking on indignation.
“I am king for the day, am I not?” Rudd said, hoping he sounded braver than he felt.
Terryn started to speak, but then noticed the audience, the fine ladies and gentlemen of the court, the waiting line of subjects, even the king’s guard standing at the door. Gritting his teeth, the official said, “Of course you are . . . sire.”
The sturdy farm woman, tears on her cheeks, said, “Oh, thank you your majesty. You are truly among the blessed.”
All color had left Terryn’s face. Rudd wondered what the king would do if his lord high steward dropped dead from apoplexy right in front of him.
“I believe we should retire for a meal, sire. The court recorder will hear the rest of the cases.”
When they were beyond the closed doors and into the hall behind the throne, Terryn turned on Rudd. His voice echoed ominously from the stone walls. “This king-for-the-day position is a façade the kingdom perpetrates one day every five years. You do not grant favors. You do not change laws. You do not give away pieces of the treasury or limit taxes. You are a peasant in a fancy gown who entertains the subjects by sharing with them a tiny dream that they too could be king. It’s a fantasy, a performance. If you open your mouth like that another time today, I will see to it that your farm is leveled, your fields salted, and everyone in your village conscripted for castle service.”
Rudd followed, head low. They’d probably confiscate the woman’s money tomorrow and reinstate the tax. He truly could not make a difference.
The banquet room featured three long tables, weighted with platters and plates. Cup-bearers, dapifers, and serving women lined the walls. Rudd reeled at the scent of spiced meats, roasted vegetables and honeyed drink. He hadn’t thought so much food in such variety was even possible. Terryn showed him to his seat at the king’s table. Three nobles he had not met nodded as the king’s chamberman pushed Rudd’s chair in for him. When Rudd was properly seated, they joined him at the table. Their chains of office clinked and glittered in the sunlight streaming through the upper windows. At their feet, the court jester sat cross-legged on an orange pillow with gold tassels. His belled hat jingled when he moved. Rudd thought the man’s painted face made him look disturbing and threatening, then the jester pushed himself up, leaving his legs crossed, and rotated into a flip that left him sitting on the pillow, surprising a laugh from Rudd.
The banquet room doors at the other end opened, letting in a stream of court officials, nobleman, important merchants, and ladies in waiting. Following them, Rudd’s mother and father and two younger brothers, looking awed and out of place. Then a handful of Rudd’s neighbors, including Faylinn from Asheby beyond the mill and her family. On a balcony, musicians struck up a tune, and soon voices filled the hall. Silverware clinked against pewter plates. Servants wove between tables, bringing in new courses and taking away the scraps. Huge mastiffs lay beneath the tables, waiting for bones.
Being king suddenly seemed as wonderful as Rudd had hoped. A platter with a baked pheasant paused before him. The servant cut a thin slice to put on Rudd’s plate. Soon, a tureen with gravy wafted by. Wine filled his mug. Then a serving maid curtseyed in front of him prettily, revealing a distracting glimpse of more skin than he was used to seeing. Terryn leaned toward him and leered. “The king can take what he wants. Shall I remember her for you later?”
Before he could answer, jugglers took a position before his table, tossing balls and flaming torches and knives in the air between them. Another course came, boiled pig, and more wine. Rudd only sipped, not being used to strong drink. Still, when he finished and excused himself, he felt the liquor’s warmth.
Terryn accompanied him to the king’s chambers. “I have state duties to attend to at the northern border. I will leave you with Sir Llewellyn, the king’s second servant and return tomorrow with the king. Llewellyn will answer your questions and accompany you to the christening ceremony at the harbor this afternoon.”
Rudd sat on the bed’s edge, relieved the Lord High Steward was leaving. Llewellyn stood by the door with his hands behind his back, looking straight ahead, a man of Rudd’s age with straight black hair that dropped to his shoulders. “Can I get you anything, your highness?”
The room was not as large as Rudd thought the king’s chambers might be, but the largest bed Rudd had ever seen filled one end. Normally, after a meal that big, Rudd would want to take a nap, like he had after the Saturnalia celebration last winter, but he’d made a list of what he wanted to do on his day as king.
“Why is a knight assigned to taking care of the king? I thought your sort just practiced for jousts.”
The young man stiffened. “A knight does as he is commanded. It is an honor to serve the king.”
Rudd felt suddenly embarrassed. He had no reason to mock the man. Besides, he was a positive relief after the High Lord Steward Terryn. “Take me on a castle tour, would you, Sir Llewellyn?”
“Of course.”
They walked through solars and bedchambers and kitchens and gatehouses and pantries, an ice house, dovecoat, chapel and storerooms. Along the way, servants and nobles alike stood aside and bowed. Llewellyn took him to the parapets where Rudd stood in the wind and saw the entire valley for the first time. Behind them, Castle Bay opened into the ocean. In the distance, long down the king’s road where it disappeared into Oakmont Forest, Rudd imagined his village tucked beyond the trees, the quiet fields where he worked every day. Once he hiked the road until he saw the pennants waving atop the castle. It was hard to comprehend that now he stood on those distantly glimpsed heights.
“Show me the secret passages, Sir Llewellyn. Castles are filled with secret passages, I hear.”
The young knight paused in his stride. “They wouldn’t be properly secret if I showed them to you.”
“I’m the king. You have to do what I ask.” They walked in silence. Finally, Rudd said, “You don’t know where they are, do you?”
“There is one I can show you.”
Back in the king’s chambers, Llewellyn tugged aside an arras, a heavy tapestry with a hunting scene woven into the fabric hanging from the ceiling.
Rudd held onto the edge. “I don’t see anything.”
“It is a low opening.”
Rudd stooped, pushing the tapestry back with one hand while feeling along the wall with the other until he came to the hip-high passageway. Llewellyn followed, a candle in hand.
“Where does it go?”
The young knight handed Rudd the candle. “Follow it and find out.”
Thirty feet of crawling took him to the inside of a cabinet. A line of light showed where two wooden doors met. Rudd pushed them open until he saw the underside of a rough table. Pots clattered and someone said, “It’s one feast after another. Why the royals can’t just have a nice bowl of soup is beyond me.”
Sir Llewellyn pulled Rudd back, closing the door. “Don’t let them see you. The king only uses this when he gets hungry in the middle of the night.”
“Doesn’t everyone know about it? If you open this cupboard, you’re looking right at it.”
“Well, it’s not a well-kept secret passage. The High Lord Steward Terryn doesn’t know about it though. The king will hide here sometimes when he doesn’t want to talk to him.”
“I don’t blame him. Show me the dungeons.”
They turned around in the tunnel. Rudd followed Llewellyn’s backside to the king’s chambers.
“They’re not . . . pleasant,” said Llewellyn.
“We should go anyway.”
“As you command.”
Rudd imagined the dungeons from his mother’s stories, a place where cutthroats and pirates and ravagers of all sorts gnashed their teeth in the dark. There might be a hint of a dragon even deeper, if mother was to be believed, but after descending flight after flight of black stone stairs, Llewellyn paused before an iron gate. He flourished a long key from a pouch hanging at his belt. Here, the walls seeped and the oil lamp Rudd carried revealed long green and grey streaks of mold that started in the junctures of the stone and flowed to the floor.
The gate creaked as it opened. Below, in the dark, a moan arose. Rudd shivered. Chains hung from bolts secured in the walls, their manacles dangling. At the end of one, a pile of clothes stirred, and face emerged from a filthy layer of cloth to squint against the lamplight. Rudd held his breath, afraid to breathe the odors that permeated the low-ceilinged, circular chamber. Other men leaned against the wall, one or both arms attached to a chain. Some cried out to them. Most looked out dully, their eyes reflecting but not seeing.
“Why are they here, Sir Llewellyn?” The misery floated off them like a fog.
“Some are thieves. A couple murdered, but most failed to pay taxes. Lord Severerin lacks patience. If a man falls short on the tax, Terryn orders their goods confiscated and the criminal jailed.”
Rudd remembered the farmer woman who would not be able to pay her tax. Would she join the other prisoners he’d seen, chained to the wall with the rest, to be blinded occasionally by a lamp’s light like he carried now. “How many people are down here?”
“There are many chambers, sire. I’ve never seen them all. Scores and scores I would suspect.”
They passed through a room filled with whips and mallets and devices that could tear skin from flesh. A blood stained table stood in the room’s middle beside a wide well. Rudd held his lamp above it, but he couldn’t see the bottom. A dropped rock disappeared into it. Seconds later, much longer than Rudd thought possible, it clattered faintly. “Where is the jailer?” said Rudd. What kind of man would spend all his time in a place like this, committing unspeakable acts for the kingdom?
“The Master of Locks only comes down to place a prisoner or to serve the king’s bidding here.” Llewellyn swept his hand around the room, at the rack, the ropes, the saws, the thumbscrews and stocks; the limb crushers, the iron maiden and spiked masks. Rudd shuddered.
“The king, our king, orders people to the dungeons?” Rudd had never seen his majesty, but he imagined him as an uplifted personage, noble in all ways, touched by god to rule his people. A “king” could not sanction this. The idea sickened him.
“No, not him personally, but justice is doled out in his name. Most are here under Lord Terryn’s seal.” Llewellyn kept his face composed and neutral, but even by the undependable lamplight, Rudd could see his disdain.
“Come,” said Rudd. “We must leave here. Take me to the captain of the king’s guard.”
Llewellyn looked relieved.
They found the captain in the stables, inspecting the horses. The reek of the stables reminded Rudd of the farm, and it was a relief after the dungeons. Hay clung to the captain’s boots. A large man of military bearing, the lines of many campaigns in his face, he bowed low before Rudd. So many had done so already that Rudd thought he should be used to it by now, but the veteran soldier, strong with years and experience, humbling himself this way seemed ridiculous to Rudd. “Please, Captain. No formalities. How many of the king’s guard are in the castle?”
The Captain stood. “The full compliment, sire. Over one-hundred men, then fourteen knights, counting Sir Llewellyn, of course, and their pages and groomsmen. Would you have me muster them for inspection.”
Rudd shook his head. “No, I want you to find the Master of Locks, and have him release the prisoners. Clear the dungeons. Every prisoner should be brought out so he can see the sun. They should be fed and their injuries or illnesses treated. I do not know which are dangerous, so they will need to be well-guarded.”
The Captain raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Some of my men are in the dungeon. Lord Terryn ordered them there. I will be happy to let them out, even if it is just for a few hours.”
Llewellyn touched Rudd’s shoulder. “You know that you are only king for a day. Terryn will make good his threats. He does not suffer disagreement.”
Rudd turned to him. “If we summon the Chancellor, he can look at each case. The criminals who are a menace will be returned to their chains, but I can pardon the others. They will have until the King returns to the throne tomorrow morning to leave the castle. Terryn will be hard pressed to round them up again once they have fled, and justice will return.”
The Captain said, “Lord Terryn will not wait until tomorrow. As soon as he hears what you have done, he will stop it. You’ll earn a spot in the darkest, dankest part of the dungeon yourself.”
Rudd could already see the angry face about the Lord High Stewards chains of office. “I will handle the Lord Terryn. Now, you have a mission, Captain.”
The soldier bowed. “My sovereign.”
Rudd turned to Llewellyn. “I believe we won’t have time for that christening, Sir Knight.”
The Chief Chancellor might have been a handsome man once, but he’d long ago lost his shape. Rudd guessed he never missed a feast. He sat on a stool that was invisible beneath his bulk and voluminous robes at a table set up in the open courtyard in the middle of the castle. Rudd sat beside him. Most of the prisoners lay on blankets. Some were too weak to sit up, but many rested, their arms propping them as they leaned back, their faces to the sun.
Squires, many of them no more than twelve or thirteen years, distributed food and water. The court physician, the surgeon, the apothecary, and two women who were renowned for their knowledge of herbs and natural remedies tended to the sickest.
A boy scurried by, stopped and faced Rudd. He stumbled over his words and his face was flushed. “Thank you, sire. You are indeed benevolent.”
Rudd didn’t know how to reply.
The Chancellor worked methodically, calling names from a book his attendant held open beside him. A scribe busily recorded the proceedings.
Rudd had already instructed the Chancellor to release prisoners whose only crime appeared to be upsetting the Lord High Steward: mostly merchants who’d refused to pay an extra fee to protect their shops from Terryn’s collectors, men who defended their wives or daughters from Terryn’s attention, and tradesmen who came to town with wagons of merchandise who were arrested for minor charges but whose auction of confiscated goods could not pay the “judicial fee” Terryn imposed.
Llewellyn rushed across the courtyard. He knelt in front of Rudd. “Your highness, one of the High Lord Steward’s servants has left the castle surely to tell his master of what you are doing here. Terryn will not wait until the morning to return with the King. He could be back before nightfall.”
The sun almost touched the western courtyard wall. If Terryn returned early, Rudd only had a couple hours to finish with the prisoners.
“We will have to work harder,” said Rudd, but there were not enough squires to tend to all the prisoners in time. It had taken too long to find the Master of the Locks and to bring the prisoners outdoors. Many were too weak to walk on their own and were carried.
“If I might, my liege,” said Llewellyn, “some members of the court have asked if they could offer their aid. Not everyone approves of how the Lord High Steward conducts himself. They say that he abuses his position as King’s regent.”
“Well, yes. If they would like to help, certainly.”
Soon, a dozen lords and ladies joined the squires, mostly directing their attendants in the work, but a couple actually carried water, food or fresh clothing to the prisoners. A richly dressed lady brought Rudd a pitcher of wine and a pewter mug. “My King, if I might serve you, it would be an honor.” She carried herself as the highest of the aristocracy. If Rudd would have met her on the road or at an inn, he would not have dared to speak to her.
Rudd wondered if someone she knew was among the prisoners. More than one were minor court officials or low nobles.
Heads appeared at the windows that overlooked the courtyard. Rudd recognized scullery maids and pages, footmen and stable boys. Some smiled shyly when he caught their eyes, but many bowed their heads.
Soon, the sun shadow crossed the courtyard. A majority of the prisoners were gone, new clothes on their backs, food in their bellies, and silver coin in their pockets. The Lord Chancellor had grown hoarse from discussing cases with the prisoners and their advocates. Broken quills lay scattered on the floor beneath the scribe, and his fingers were ink blackened.
Trumpets at the gates announced the arrival of Lord High Steward Terryn. Rudd stiffened. He could flee, but no place would be safe. If ever there was a candidate for the instruments of torture in the dungeon, he knew he was it.
First, the High Steward’s private guards entered the courtyard, swords swinging from their hips. Then the Lord High Steward himself. The length of the courtyard was not enough to hide the King’s Regent’s rage. He started shouting at twenty paces. “What vandalism have you committed here? I commanded you not to make policy, you peasant! Only the king can pardon prisoners, the real king, and until he assumes the entirety of his duties, those decisions come from me.” He spat the last words. Terryn spotted the Captain of the Guard, who was carrying an armful of filthy clothes to be burned. “Imprison this usurper immediately, and send men on the road to find the prisoners he has released.”
The Captain put his hand on his sword. Rudd closed his eyes. If he was going to die now, this seemed to be an honorable way to go. Still, the day had been a good one. Prisoners came to him before they left, some crying, all grateful. They swore their allegiance. They praised his mercifulness. God would smile on him and his family for all of his days, they said.
Rudd would remember those words. He only hoped that Terryn’s vengeance would not extend to his family.
Silence stretched. Rudd opened his eyes. The Captain of the Guard had not moved. Terryn looked to him and then to Rudd, his mouth quivering in fury. Terryn snarled, “I will do it then!” He took a step forward. Quicker than Rudd would have believed possible, the Captain of the Guard’s sword point rested on the Lord High Steward’s chest. Terryn’s guards started forward, but a hundred knights stepped from the shadows all around.
The Captain of the Guard said, “What would you have me do, my King?”
Rudd cleared his throat. The Captain of the Guard held the sword steady, but he looked to the young man. “What would you suggest?”
The Captain said, “Threatening the King is high treason. He should be put into the dungeon to await trial.”
Terryn’s face paled. “He is not King. The King will return in the morning, and I am his Regent. I am . . .”
“Not the King?” said the Captain. “Of course he is.”
Rudd took a deep breath. “Even if he is released tomorrow, he should get a taste of lower rooms. Don’t mistreat him.”
Two knights stepped forward to take the sputtering official away. Between them, Terryn seemed much smaller, not nearly as frightening.
Sir Llewellyn took his place beside Rudd. “Well done, Sire. If the Chancellor can work uninterrupted, I believe he can finish the last of the cases before we lose the light altogether.”
Rudd slept well in the King’s bed, although he missed the sounds of his family around him. No snoring from his brothers. No squealing from the pigs in the pen behind his house. As he drifted to sleep, he imagined Terryn chained to a wall like so many others he’d condemned.
Sir Llewellyn woke Rudd. “The King is arriving, Sire. He wishes your presence in the throne room.”
Like yesterday, a butler tried to dress him, but Rudd sent him from the room. There were only so many indignities he was willing to suffer.
In the throne room, the child king stood on the dais beside the high seat. The Chancellor and Captain of the Guard waited to the side. Knights lined the walls. No lords or ladies were present, though, and Rudd’s boots clicked heavily as he advanced.
Up close, the King looked his ten years, but he wore the crown and robe comfortably. He studied Rudd as he advanced.
Rudd knelt.
The King moved down a step on the dais to be more on Rudd’s level.
“You may look up,” said the King.
All in all, thought Rudd, his life had not been poorly spent. He loved the smell of fresh cut hay in the fall. When apples fell from the boughs and cider bubbled in the pots, he sighed with contentment. Faylinn, from Ashbey beyond the mill had held his hand. They’d danced. And he’d been King for a day. Rudd wondered how many people had stood on the parapets, the ocean to their backs, high above the valley, and knew that it was all for them to command, even if the time was short.
The young sovereign met Rudd’s gaze. He might be a child, thought Rudd, but a child like none he’d ever known.
Finally the King spoke. “You released prisoners from the dungeon, and arrested the Lord High Steward? You placed the Lord High Steward in chains?”
Rudd nodded.
The King sat on the step. “I wished I’d thought of that.”
“What?” said Rudd.
“Brilliant,” said the King. “Just brilliant. He scared the hell out of me.”
©July, 2017 James Van Pelt
James Van Pelt is a former teacher turned professional writer. His work has appeared in many places, including Realms of Fantasy, Adventures in Sword & Sorcery, Asimov’s, Daily Science Fiction, and previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine . His most recent novel, Pandora’s Gun, came out in 2015.