The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, X Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. After Sext.
Clement, St. James, Mendelor, Sir Will Garnfellow.
Clement, Mendelor, and Garnfellow sit at a table as St. James brings a small, thin man over to the table.
“Gentlemen,” says St. James, “This is my uncle, Brad. He’s a baker in town.”
The thin man sheepishly grins as St. James hands him an ale; both sit down to the table.
“Much thanks,” says the baker, accepting the drink. “You’re a good lad after all, Des… er, Saint James.”
“Hollah!” cries St. James. “It’s that leeching, barefooted friar!”
In through the door steps a beaming Friar Sidrach and at this sight, Clement and Garnfellow burst into guffaws of laughter.
“Wherefore this mirth?” asks Friar Sidrach, approaching the table, but Clement, Garnfellow, and St. James only laugh harder.
“Sing it,” gasps St. James. “Sing it for the barefooted friar!”
Clement, flushed with ale, snatches up a napkin and springs upon the table. He wraps the cloth around his head, much like a monk’s hood. He clasps his hands together, as if in prayer; he bows to the friar, and begins to sing, off-key, to the tune of “Derry Down”:
“I’ll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Frilond through, from Rheme to the Harpish main;
But ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.“Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career…”
At this Garnfellow cries, “Prick’d? The knight pricked his lady?” Many in the bar roar with laugher, but Clement continues with nary a pause:
“And is brought home at even-song pricked through with a spear;
I confess him in haste—for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar’s.“Your monarch? Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e’er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!“The Friar has walk’d out, and where’er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark’d for his own…”
Clement jumps down, dances to a nearby table, and plucks up a half-eaten haunch of mutton, to the delight of his audience.
“He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man’s house is the Barefooted Friar’s.“He’s expected at night, and the pasty’s made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack’d a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.
Clement throws away the haunch, and stretches down on the floor, as if lying upon the softest of beds.
“Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the Shaithim, the trust of the Pope;
For to gather life’s roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.”
At this the crowd roars with laughter and applause as Clement helps himself to his feet. Several men clap Clement on the back; several cries of “Good man!” can be heard.
“Quite amusing,” says the friar. “Quite amusing.”
“That’s a good fellow,” says St. James, patting the friar on the back. St. James gestures to Tom Golding to bring Friar Sidrach a drink; he murmurs to Garnfellow, “Even though he sometimes seems a bit useless.”
“Ah, thank you my son,” says Friar Sidrach, taking his ale. “And now, perhaps you would humor me with another lesson in draughts. Truly, a delightful game. Delightful.”
St. James brings over the board, and begins to arrange the pieces.
“Splendid!” cries Garnfellow. “I haven’t had a decent game of draughts in ages. I should like to challenge the victor of your match!”
“Whatever,” says St. James. His uncle stands up, and clears his throat.
“Well, lad, I must be going—your aunt will have my head if she finds out where I am at!”
St. James waves the baker off, just as Valerius, Hamral, and Coric enter the Boar. The three men immediately drift to the table.
“Well met,” says Coric, nodding to the group; Valerius sits down without a word and glances intently at the rest of the party.
“Excellent: the entire company is assembled. So, let us reiterate our prospectus, gentlemen,” says Valerius. “All of us will attempt to infiltrate the manor house of Baronet Lownell. Friar Sidrach and I shall arrive together; he as a Gerardian, and I shall pretend to be a Bergenian monk, on a surveying mission at the bequest of my abbot.”
“Perhaps you could pretend to have taken a vow of silence?” asks St. James, but if Valerius hears this comment, he does not acknowledge it.”
“Meanwhile,” continues Valerius, “Hamral and Mendelor shall pose as men-at-arms, in search of employment. Clement, Coric, and St. James shall attempt to gain entrance as a wandering singer and cooks, respectively. This should be an elementary enough undertaking. Do any of you have any questions? Good—we should plan to leave as soon as possible.”
Clement begins to hum a strain of “The Barefooted Friar,” and St. James laughs again.
The Bristling Boar, the same day. After Vespers.
Coric, Hamral, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius.
St. James finishes his ale and leans in to the rest of the group, huddled closely around the table.
“I’ve done a little checking on our dear friend, Will Garnfellow,” says the young man.
“And?” asks Valerius, arching an eyebrow.
“Mags was most helpful. You should all thank Hamral for his sense of… civic duty.” At this, Mendelor rolls his eyes. St. James continues. “It seems that Sir Girth was not always such a battened capon. He was once a knight in the service of the Baron of Bellenore, and was dearly-loved by his lord. Mags heard a story of how Garnfellow once saved the Baron by defeating over a score of ruck-men.”
Mendelor coughs.
“I didn’t say how he did it,” says St. James. “In any case, it seems that when the old Baron died, he bequeathed a decent stipend to Garnfellow. Just enough for a fat knight to live comfortably on. And it was a good thing, too, because Mags heard that the Baron’s son was never very fond of Garnfellow. Jealous, Mags thinks. Anyway, after the Old Baron died Garnfellow made for Heremac, and has been here ever since. I guess it’s safe to say that he’s not the Lordship.”
“Not that I attended to such a notion for a moment,” says Valerius. “Oh, and by the by,” says the tall man, “This is for you.” Valerius pulls forth a large sheath of arrows, and lays them before St. James. “If you have need of something from me, be advised that you need but ask. Do not ever simply take the liberty again to pursue my personal belongings. Ever. In the future, you—let us just say that you may not like what you find.
“Now, it would appear everything is in order. Let us meet tomorrow before daybreak. I would suggest that the rest of you forgo further libations this night.”
Mendelor, Clement, and Hamral look at each other, and sigh.
North Gate, Heremac, XI Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. Before Prime.
Clement, Coric, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
The entire party assembles at the North Gate. It is a very cool, clear morning. Everyone is weighted down with great packs, and even Friar Sidrach’s mule is buried beneath a high-mounded load.
Waiting at the North Gate is Sir Will Garnfellow, astride an old, gaunt horse, its skinny legs shaking beneath the tremendous burden; a fully-laden pony is tethered beside the horse. Garnfellow is wearing fine, brightly-colored livery. Strapped to his side is a longsword, its bejeweled pommel resting against his fat flanks. Strapped to the side of his saddle is a great kite shield painted light blue, with three lions rampant emblazoned upon the surface. On his head is a conical helm, obviously much too small for his round face. Garnfellow beams as he sees everyone approach, and he bellows out a greeting.
“Hail and well met, lads! What, you intended to sleep the whole day through? By the Cup, such wanton indolence. Now come on, come on, let’s away, lads—adventure awaits!”
“What—is—this?” asks Valerius, between clenched teeth.
“Oh, I invited Garnfellow along,” says St. James, with a great laugh. “I think that Sir Garnfellow might be quite useful to our… mission.” And with that, the young man bursts out in a riot of laughter.
“I… see,” says Valerius.
“Not to worry lad, not to worry at all,” says Garnfellow, gesturing to Valerius. “Wipe that frown off your face. Everything’s aright, now that Will Garnfellow has been called forth. Zounds, I feel like a young man! Ruffians and rucks alike should shudder in fear for their worthless lives!”
“Well, let’s get a move on,” says Mendelor.
“Agreed,” says Valerius.
Garnfellow pulls from his saddle a great horn, and gives forth a resounding, discordant series of notes. As Valerius grits his teeth, the knight spurs his horse forward to a slow trot.
“ONWARD, JUSTICAR!” cries the fat man, trying to stand up in his stirrups. “TO ADVENTURE!”
St. James laughs, claps Valerius on the back, and walks through the great gate.
“And lads,” cries Garnfellow. “Should we be stopped on our way to Lownell, remember to just say only that you are part of my retinue. That should deflect all unwanted suspicion…”
A Crossroads, XII Harfesting, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. None.
Clement, Coric, Hamral, St. James, Mendelor, Sir Will Garnfellow, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“Ah, Lownell,” says Garnfellow. “I look forward to the Baronet’s hospitality. A good feast that will stick to a knight’s ribs. And perhaps some hunting.… I say, lads, Old Will is glad to finally accompany you on one of your adventures. Too bad there are no ruck-men to rout. A pity, that.”
The party stands at a crossroads. The day is cool and overcast, threatening to shower at any minute: autumn is, unmistakably, in the air.
“Alright,” says Valerius, “My understanding is that the road to the right leads to Lownell’s manor house, less than half a league hence. If we hurry, we shall be there before nightfall. Now you all remember our plan?”
“Uh, Valerius,” says St. James. “The—The thing of it is, we’re not going to Lownell.”
“Just what in Perdition are you talking about?” asks the tall man.
“We—talked about it,” says St. James, “And this whole business just seems too dangerous. I don’t want to die for Tim or Godwin. Neither does the friar or Hamral. So we’re not going to go to Lownell.”
“We? We? What is this sudden use of the plural?” asks Valerius.
“We’ve all of us got enemies on both sides in Heremac now,” says Hamral. “We’re caught between the forge and the fire.”
“Do not fret, Valerius,” says Friar Sidrach. “Mayhap this conflict can be avoided altogether by taking a holiday from the good town of Heremac. Yes, mayhap avoided altogether.”
“And you three all decided this by yourselves?” says Valerius. “Without consulting me?”
“We knew you’d try to talk us out of it,” says St. James. “Look, don’t worry. I grabbed anything of yours that was in the apartment. So there’s no need for us to go back to Heremac, ever.”
“Maybe we can just wait for the heat to die down,” says Hamral.
“Well,” says Valerius. “I can plainly see that the three of you have been very busy. I should think that now is perhaps an excellent time for all of us to debate this matter.”