Jonathan Rogers: The Secret of the Swamp King

“Well, they’ll be better eating than a tough old boar hog anyway,” Cuthbert remarked by way of consolation.

“But that’s not all,” said Cleland. “When we got back to the castle, Aidan and Steren were waiting for us.”

“And they had the big boar hog,” added Radnor.

“Alive.” Cleland paused for effect. “Somehow they had managed to catch the boar, tie him up, and carry him out of the woods on a sapling pole.”

Cuthbert stared open-mouthed in Cleland’s direction. “Impossible!” he said at last. “I don’t believe you. Two boys can’t catch a wild boar alive. Not without dogs.”

“Hard to believe, Cuthbert, I know,” said Radnor. “I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen the hog with my own eyes.”

“They won’t say how they did it,” added Cleland. “They say it’s a secret.”

Cuthbert slumped back in his chair, amazed by what he had been told.

“I tell you, that Errolson boy is something special,” said Radnor. “Every time I turn around, he’s done something I never thought anybody could do.”

“Well, don’t forget,” said Cleland, “it wasn’t just Aidan. The prince was with him too.”

Radnor raised his eyebrows. “You tell me, Cleland. Do you really think the prince would have come back with the hog if he hadn’t been with Aidan Errolson?”

The conversation was cut short by the sound of a hunting horn, the sign that King Darrow would be taking his place at the head table along with the chief huntsmen-the hunters who had most distinguished themselves in the previous day’s outing. And to no one’s surprise, the chief huntsmen for this feast were Prince Steren and Aidan Errolson.

As the king and the two boys entered the trophy room, the feasters cheered raucously and stomped their heavy boots. Even the hunting dogs howled and wagged themselves sideways. The courtiers had grown to love Aidan almost as much as they loved their king. In three short years, Aidan had made himself a regular at the head table during hunt feasts. Time after time, his fellow hunters had elected him chief huntsman and seated him at the king’s right hand.

“There’s a surprise!” called one of the noblemen. “Aidan Errolson is at the head table again!”

“It’s the king of the forest!” shouted another. “And King Darrow too!”

The feasters were in a back-slapping good humor, ready to laugh and enjoy themselves, and they laughed heartily at these and similar jokes. King Darrow stretched his mouth into a smile-or something like it-but clearly he was not as amused as the other feasters at this line of jesting. In the past few months, Darrow had grown cold toward the young hero he had brought to his court. He no longer joined in when his noblemen sang Aidan’s praises.

“One of these hunt feasts, we’re going to put King Darrow at Aidan’s right hand!” called another feaster.

Aidan watched Darrow’s eyes narrow even as the lower half of his face continued to smile. He saw the king’s jaw working as he ground his back teeth. Aidan quickly wiped the smile from his own face, hoping to discourage further jokes in this vein.

But immediately after the seating of the king and chief huntsmen came the presentation of the game, and with it came further reason for the king to be annoyed. Two liveried servants brought out the yearling pigs killed by Darrow’s hunting party. Each was arranged in a bed of greenery on a silver platter, and each had an apple in its mouth. The feasters applauded politely as the pigs were placed on the head table in front of the king. They were nothing to be ashamed of, certainly. Two yearling pigs constituted a respectable bag for a morning’s hunt.

But the applause swelled to a crescendo of cheering, whistling, and foot stomping when a trio of kitchen servants staggered into the trophy room under Steren’s and Aidan’s massive boar. It was roasted to a succulent brown, and in its snarling mouth an apple-the largest apple the cook could find-looked like a shriveled plum.

“Now that’s a hog!” somebody shouted.

“Darrow should be ashamed of himself,” joked Lord Grady, “killing those little piglets when a monster like that was prowling his forest!”

The head table, made of thick slabs of black walnut, sagged under the weight of the three hogs, not to mention the pots and platters of vegetables.

From where they sat, the noblemen could hardly see the king for the mountain of roast hog the servants had placed in front of him. “Say, what happened to King Darrow?” called Lord Cleland. “Are you still there, Your Majesty?”

Aidan stole a quick glance at Darrow. The king was looking down at his plate, his mouth set in a tight line. He wasn’t even pretending to be amused now. Aidan stared down at the table, counting the tines on his forks, tracing the pattern on his dinner plate. It had been a hard few months for Aidan. The more he grew in the noblemen’s favor, the harder it was to please his king.

“Look,” laughed Lord Grady, “the great huntsman’s ears are turning red!”

“Stop, Grady,” came the voice of another nobleman. “You’re embarrassing him.” Aidan stared harder at his plate, praying that everyone’s attention would soon shift elsewhere.

Suddenly, Aidan’s plate lurched away from him like a boat that had drifted into a swift current. For a dizzying, disorienting moment, Aidan thought he was falling backward out of his chair. But Aidan wasn’t tipping; the table was, tilting forward into the middle of the trophy room, crashing heavily onto its side. Earthenware dashed to pieces on the sandstone floor, and peas, carrots, and potatoes scattered in all directions. Candle stands clattered to the floor, and broken, extinguished candles lay among the debris. The hunting dogs boiled over the overturned table to get at the roasted hogs that lay broken on the floor.

Everyone stared in astonished silence at King Darrow, who stood in his place at the center of the head table. His face was still red from the exertion of flipping the thick walnut table and its heavy contents-no small feat for a man in his midsixties. His black eyes were flashing, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“I am Darrow,” he said in a loud, clear voice that echoed around the trophy room. “I am king of Corenwald.”

The courtiers, recovering a little, rose quickly to their feet out of respect for their king. Darrow put a booted foot on the edge of the overturned table and tipped it so it was completely upside down. The heavy clap of the tabletop on the floor scattered the dogs. The king stepped across the table and into the space between the two remaining tables. He stood in front of Lord Grady and spoke to him with clipped words. “I am your king.”

Grady looked down at his hands, fumbling at his hunting tunic. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Darrow turned to the table behind him and walked to Lord Halbard. He reached across the table, grabbed a handful of Halbard’s coat, and pulled him close until their noses almost touched. He searched Halbard’s face, as if he no longer recognized his old friend. “I… am

… your… king!” He spoke each word separately and distinctly, and his voice was raised to a near shout.

Halbard’s eyes bulged with terror. “Y-yes, Your Majesty,” he stuttered.

Meanwhile, the dogs had begun fighting over the carcass of Aidan’s boar, and the growling, snapping, yelping mass tumbled into King Darrow and got tangled under his feet. The king let go of Halbard and kicked at the dogs. He caught two by the scruff of the neck, one with each hand, before they could scamper away. He lifted the two dogs up to his own eye level and, shaking with rage, screamed at them: “I am your king!” He dropped the dogs, and they slunk off whimpering, their tails between their legs.