Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“Hello there friar, is your throat dry or – are you looking for something to eat? Some ale, some meat?” The innkeeper hailed him in a gruffy, sing-song manner, wrinkling his stump of a nose like a charging bull, and running a hand through his greasy hair to make it stick upwards in a haphazard manner, which he apparently thought made him handsome.

“A little of both, and some bread – enough for two, if you please, sir.” Willard sat calmly down in front of the man, remaining polite despite the other’s comical mannerisms and rhyming speech.

“Bread, beef, and beer for the gentleman here!” He called to his wife who was working in the kitchen. He then played his eyes back and forth like two rolling balls, trying subtly to ask Willard where he was from. But it was unintelligible to Willard, as it would have been to most who did not know the strange Innkeeper. Eventually the middle-aged man grew impatient and chimed at his customer once more, “I don’t recall having seen you at all, or are you new these parts, come to save some old hearts?” This allusion to missionary work among the isolated forest dwellers was brought on by Willard’s appearance, for he was still dressed as a monk.

“No, good sir, I have just finished a very long period of hermitage with my friend over there,” here he pointed to Horatio, “So we are headed toward the coast and the more civilized areas of Atilta for the first time in years. More than that, I cannot remember – though I would be pleased to here some tales while I wait for my supper.”

“Who was king when you left, the man of right or the man of theft?” The Innkeeper pointed one of his long, slender fingers at a picture of a man in royal garb that hung on the wall behind him. He had a thick black beard, sensitive eyes, and a Romanesque nose – apparently the ‘man of right’ to whom the Innkeeper referred.

“He was king.” Willard paused a moment and looked at the painting with curious eyes, for it was very familiar, like something he had seen so many times. Yet he could not place it. “But you seem to imply that he is king no more? How can this be?” His deep voice was driven through with emotion.

The Innkeeper was doused in emotion himself, and could only turn his head to hide his leaking eyes: a pedantic patriot. “Gylain has taken the throne, and Atilta left to mourn its own.” Then silence came on the Innkeeper, and he fled to the kitchen in a passion. Willard sat in silence as he waited for the matron of the house to finish preparing his supper.

Meanwhile, not twenty feet behind him the three stumpy merchants came up to Horatio, sitting beside him at the table and hoping to have a drink with the gigantic monk. They were identical, but that one had blond hair, one brown, and one black. Their other features were the same: a long, crooked nose; two beady eyes that their big sockets made look like pearls in an oyster; and an over-sized mouth. They sat down and offered Horatio a drink, but he could only grunt, not knowing what to do.

“Have a drink with us you big brute! We are the Fardy brothers, men of patience and virtue. But though I could not care more if you despised me, I will not let my brothers be spurned. Now drink, or I will pour it down your throat like so much water down a river,” said the blond Fardy.

“He is no liar, you overgrown preacher. Mother always said I was a patient man, but when I am insulted more than it is right to bear, I can become angry,” said the brown Fardy.

“No one can steal your steel tempered temper, brother, but have you not taken into account that this monk might have taken a vow of temperance, not to take a drink for the sake of the church? That would make us his tempters, and it is better to have a millstone tied around one’s neck and be thrown into the sea, than to lead one of his little ones astray,” said the black Fardy.

“Little ones? He is no little one!” roared the first. “Size up his belly, brothers, and tell me he does not take a gallon of Atiltian scotch each meal!”

“A single gallon? I reckon two! There is nothing temperate about that monk, my long suffering brother, and what he refrains from doing he refrains from spite,” cried the brown Fardy.

“Perhaps he has taken a vow of silence, and we would be better not to tempt him from his holy work,” returned the dark one.

“Vow of silence? Brother you are more peaceful than I and that is no virtue in my book! I saw him chatting like a drunken nun with his friend, just moments ago. The only vow of silence he has taken is against the Fardy brothers; and though for myself I do not take offense, I cannot let my brothers be bullied!” With this, the blond Fardy brought both his fists down on the table with such a thud that the board cracked and his cup catapulted into the air, landing on the brown Fardy’s head and spilling its contents all over his clothing.

Thus injured, the brown brother yelled, “By the devil, he has set us against one another, brothers. We must not let his warlike nature overcome our peaceful ways. The quill triumphs over the sword! Remain calm in the face of his outrages, my brothers!”

The noise of the thud had gotten Willard’s attention, and seeing what was happening to Horatio, he leapt up and went over to the table.

“Excuse me, dear sirs, has my companion done anything to rile your tempers?” he asked, giving them a respectful bow.

The respect served only to confirm their high opinions of themselves, and the blond brother said, “Your companion has cruelly wronged us by refusing to drink, or even to speak, with us. Though we keep our tempers, his subversive ways inflame them unto bursting.”

Willard remained calm, imparting some of his steadfastness to them by the peaceful nature of his eyes. “You must excuse my companion, for he speaks only Latin and has given up drink. I hope my apology for his conduct will excuse him?”

“Not at all,” cried the brown Fardy, “He could have signaled to us in the very least. But no, he sat there and looked at us with contempt. We must duel, here and now!”

“Duel, here and now,” repeated the blond brother.

“Perhaps we should have an arm wrestle,” suggested the black Fardy in a conciliatory voice, “For no one will get hurt, yet it is still a way for us to prove our strength against him.”

“A grand suggestion, my brother,” rejoined the blond brother as he eyed Willard’s ornate sword with greed, his merchant’s instincts possessing him to possess it, “And perhaps we can make a wager: a full suit of the finest mail for that sword. It is fair, considering the odds.” He said this with a greedy light in his eyes, for it was never heard of before that three men could be defeated by one in an arm wrestle. But Willard was confident, for he knew what his opponents did not: Horatio was no man.

“I accept your odds,” he said, “And let the people in this room take witness that the bet has thus been laid.” He motioned to the others in the inn, who had come over to see what was going on. They all assented, and looked forward to the match with great excitement.

Willard said some words in Latin that he somehow remembered from his youth – though he could not recall why – and made his signals to Horatio to let him know what to do. He looked at the crowd and pointed to the bear, whom they thought to be a monk, and said in a confidential manner, “ Mens sana in corpore sano .” They cheered, though they had no idea what it meant.

Horatio then put his elbow to the table and held his paw in the air, looking at Willard in order to follow his lead. The three Fardy brothers each grasped his paw with both of their hands, putting all their weight behind their arms. This was against the rules, and the crowd booed. But Willard allowed it, to add the sympathies of the crowd to their side. The Innkeeper began the countdown, “One, two, three, begin the jamboree!”