The Brave Apprentice (6 page)

There was the clatter of hooves on wood ahead, and rolling wheels, and then Patch and Gosling followed the rest of the party across the bridge.

“You see, Patch, any army that tries to take Dartham has to take the bridges first, then trudge up the hill with arrows coming down like rain, before they even get to the walls. It’s a mighty stronghold, Dartham.”

They rode through fields and past barns and huts.
Inside were the people who cultivated the land for three seasons, and now spent this relentless winter huddled against the cold.

Gosling said, “Look now, Patch.”

Before him, Patch saw an imposing black shape against a backdrop of stars: sprawling walls with towers rising at the corners, and watch-turrets sprouting even higher. Beyond the walls, Patch could see the keep, the great stone building inside the walls where the royals dwelled.

“See the jagged stonework at the top of the walls? It protects our defenders. We call those battlements,” Gosling told Patch.

A horn sounded as they drew closer, and torches gathered along the top of the wall directly before them. They crossed a drawbridge over the ditch that surrounded the walls and arrived at a gatehouse in the outer wall. Men stood on the parapet above the gate, holding the torches. When the constable recognized Lord Addison, he shouted an order down the far side of the wall. Patch heard the screech and rattle of heavy iron chains, and a spiked ironclad grate that barred the doors began to rise. “We call that a portcullis,” Gosling whispered to Patch.

The tall oaken doors, immensely thick, swung open. A small feline shape darted out and sprinted past the travelers, over the drawbridge. “And we call that a pussycat,” Mannon jeered in a singsong voice.

Gosling chuckled. “A greater wit never lived, my portly friend. Patch, the winch room is just above this passage we’re about to enter. The winches raise and lower the portcullises. You’ll have to pop in to see it. Marvelous machinery.”

As their horses trotted through the short passage under the gatehouse, Gosling tapped Patch on the shoulder and pointed up. In the ceiling of the passage, Patch saw small rectangular openings into the room above. Men were peering down at them. “More defenses. We can fire arrows down through those holes at anyone who gets this far,” Gosling said.

At the far end of the passage, Patch saw the second, inner portcullis, already up, and he marveled at the strength of Dartham’s fortifications. They passed into the courtyard, where stable boys bustled from the darkness to lead their horses away. Patch noticed Addison’s head inclined upward, staring at something overhead. All the windows of Dartham were dark, except for a dim light at one balcony over the main door of the keep. A woman was there, looking down, a silhouette as slender and graceful as a black swan. Patch was so entranced that it startled him when a pale, thin man suddenly appeared in front of them, dressed in long robes and holding a staff of polished white wood in one hand and a candlestick in the other.

“Greetings, Lord Addison,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you, too, Basilus, old friend.”

Basilus lowered his head and closed his eyes. “It was my honor to serve your brother. I grieve for his loss.”

A gentle cough came from Addison’s throat. “Thank you, Basilus. I know Giles valued your service. May you serve the king as well as you served him.”

Basilus bowed. “As for the king, my lord, he asked to see you, no matter what time you arrived tonight.”

“Very well,” Addison said, before turning to the others. “I’m sure the rest of you are anxious to put this day behind us. So good night, gentlemen. And Patch. Until we convene in the morning.”

Addison went into the keep with Basilus. “This way to the barracks,” Gosling said, and they turned toward a separate building, long and low and made of timbers. Inside, where it smelled of smoke and straw and sweat, a score of mattresses surrounded a smoldering fire. Under heaps of wool and fur slept an unknown number of men. Gosling and Mannon kicked off their boots and burrowed in among them.

Patch found an unoccupied spot next to a snoring stranger. He closed his eyes and a jumble of images drifted across his mind—stern Addison, vile Hurgoth, mocking Mannon, ridiculous Simon, a lovely figure in black—before he swiftly plummeted into dreamless sleep.

was the last to wake up. He stumbled out of the arracks into yet another cold winter morning. The light of the sun had transformed the landscape.

The courtyard was far bigger than he had imagined—all of Crossfield could have fit inside, and more. He’d expected open ground, but it was filled with structures of all sizes. There was a chapel, the largest building after the keep. There were storehouses and stables, a well house and thatch-roofed workshops for coopers, candle makers, potters, and more. Nearby a smith worked at a forge, sparks flying as he hammered on a smoldering bar of iron. In a far corner was a vineyard, just naked sticks lashed to wooden frames in this frigid season. There was a small pond close to where Patch stood. Through a hole that had been chopped through the foot-thick ice, he could see eels and fish swimming about.

“There you are.” It was Addison, stepping out from
the keep’s main door. “We are about to begin. If you are quite ready.”

Patch followed him to the tall doors, where Addison turned, blocking the threshold. “May I offer you some advice?”

“Of course, my lord,” Patch replied.

“We are here to discuss grave matters. At this meeting there will be scholars, knights, and noble folk. If I were you, I would understand my place. I would answer questions that were asked of me, of course. Other than that, I would remain silent, and let the leaders of this kingdom decide what they will.”

Patch felt his cheeks flush red. Addison stared down, expressionless. “Of course, young apprentice, this is only my advice. You can choose to ignore it. But it seems to me that a peasant like yourself, in the company of the king …”

“I understand,” Patch said while Addison paused. “Thank you, Lord Addison.” He slowed to let the nobleman walk ahead of him.

Patch’s eyes widened as he entered the great hall of Dartham. Before this moment, Bernard’s tavern held the largest room he’d ever seen, and this one had to be twenty times the size. The ceiling seemed as high as the heavens, and it was made of heavy beams and planks that served as the floor for the rooms above. Towering tapestries hung on the walls, flanking arched openings
that led to other areas of the keep. An enormous wooden table stood in the center, littered with maps and parchments and leather-bound books. There was room for twenty people or more in the chairs that lined three of its sides. Half were occupied already, while enough men to fill the rest stood talking. As Addison walked in, many of them nodded his way.

Patch saw Bernard’s box next to the table, along with other containers. He felt a surge of pride when he saw some men clustered around the box, looking at the remains of
his
troll, the one he’d knocked off the bridge. One of the knights held up the square of troll hide for the others to see, and the rest marveled over the tough skin, more than two inches thick.

Against one wall was a cavernous fireplace with a roaring blaze that bathed the room in a warm orange light and cast quivering shadows onto the stone walls. Near the fire, apart from everyone else, Patch saw a thin, bent old man with a long white beard, slouched in a comfortable chair and covered with blankets despite being so close to the flames. Patch thought at first that he was sleeping, but the old man’s eyes were open. What he was looking at Patch could not guess—the elder’s eyes seemed to focus on a distant point that was far beyond even these walls. The old man’s mouth moved soundlessly, and he rocked gently as he sat.

Suddenly, a voice boomed out behind Patch. “Is that the apprentice? Is that him, Addison?” The voice
belonged to a round man with a head of thick, curly hair that merged with an equally dense beard, so that it gave the impression of an auburn wreath circling his moonlike face. He had sparkling eyes and a mouth that seemed accustomed to smiling, and he bustled toward them with outstretched hands.

“It is, Your Majesty,” Addison said, bowing slightly.

As the round man drew close, Patch noticed the fine purple garments trimmed with gold, and the modest crown almost lost in that unruly hair.
King Milo.
Panic flooded Patch’s brain. Not knowing exactly what to do, he dropped abruptly to his knees and lowered his head. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.” The gesture was clumsy, and he heard some chuckles from the men in the room.

“Oh, get up, get up,” said Milo. He clutched the material at Patch’s shoulder and hauled him to his feet. “We are so pleased to meet you. You’re a hero, son. An inspiration to all the common folk. I hope you’re ready to tell us all about your battle with the troll. We have much to learn today.” He lifted his head to search the room. “Are we ready to begin? Where is Griswold? Where is our scholar?”

“Here, Your Majesty;” a wheezy voice answered. A grizzled-looking man in a long gray robe hobbled into the room, struggling to control the bundles of scrolls and books he held under each arm. Griswold walked to the side of the table without chairs and dropped his burden there with the rest of his materials. He talked
quietly to himself as he arranged them. “Now where is the—oh yes, there it is. Did I bring … of course, it’s right here, I’m losing my mind. But where—don’t tell me I—confound it, that’s not it….”

Milo’s cheerful laugh rang out. “Come, my friends, take your places around the table. Perhaps by then Griswold will be ready.” The men moved quickly to their seats. Milo took the centermost chair, with a back that towered above the rest. Addison sat on the king’s right side, and Mannon and Gosling took the next places. Gosling waved Patch over to sit beside him. Patch’s stomach was rumbling, so he was thrilled to see platters of salt fish and rye bread within reach. “Eat up, young tailor,” Gosling whispered. “This could be a long meeting.”

That sounded fine to Patch. He was fascinated by the scrolls and parchments, and delighted by this jovial king. During his journey with Addison and company, he’d formed the impression that the higher a noble ranked, the less friendly he became. But Milo contradicted that theory. Here was a grown man with the enthusiasm and warmth of a child.

Basilus, the king’s steward, appeared next to the scholar with a goblet on a silver platter. “Wine for the king’s honored guest?”

Griswold squinted at the offering. “No, wine has a terrible effect on me, dear Basilus. But I would ask for water if I might.” He turned to face the king. “I am ready, Your Majesty.” The king nodded his approval.

Griswold had spread out the map of the kingdom and its surrounding countries, an enormous book, a bundle of moldy scrolls, and sheets of parchment that looked ready to disintegrate in a strong breeze: the accumulated knowledge of the trolls. The old scholar watched with a satisfied smile as the king’s men leaned closer to the table, taking care not to block the monarch’s view. He took a few extra moments to arrange the items just so, and Patch could tell that he was enjoying this moment. Men of the sword and the arrow were so often the heroes, Patch thought, but now Griswold had been summoned from wherever he lived, and all these powerful knights and lords were itching to hear what the learned man had to say.

He straightened up, cleared his throat, and rubbed his hands together. “Shall I begin with a poem? Perhaps you know it already:

There were a few smiles around the table, a nod or two of recognition, and some impatient glances. Griswold shrugged. “Learned that when I was just a child myself. It’s not entirely accurate. But then, it’s only a poem meant to keep the children from wandering too far from home.” He turned the map around so that it faced the king. “Well, sire. As you know, the stone trolls, or weeping trolls, as they are sometimes called—because of the noxious yellow stuff that always oozes from their eyes—are solitary creatures, living alone in their caves and skulking out to cause no end of evil. As far as we know they come from the Barren Gray, a mountainous area not visited by sensible men. The Gray is known for its desolation, its long winter, its rocky terrain, its lack of vegetation, and of course the trolls themselves. It is thought that the monsters feed mostly upon wild goats and pigs, except, of course, for the unlucky people whom they waylay.