I have a short story in the latest, and last, anthology of the Spurgle Chronicles.
You can get your copy here.
Here’s a short snippet from my story, Trial by Arms. You may recognize one of the characters. Enjoy!
Trial by Arms
Eoin stifled a yawn that desperately wanted to escape. His back, legs, and rump ached from hours in a high-backed chair, and his head had begun to throb with what his wife called a ‘black fugue’.
Seventeen years I’ve endured this rubbish, he grumped to himself as the peasant standing before him whined on and on about some imagined injustice. You’d have thought the King would have given me something better than this milkmaid’s stool by now.
“So, you see, my lord,” the stooped man in front of him concluded, “All I want is what’s mine.”
“So, the…” Eoin searched his mind for what the current petitioner wanted, “Cow, wasn’t it?”
“Sheep, my lord. Twelve of them.”
“Ah, yes, sheep,” Eoin continued, his disinterested expression transforming to baleful disdain. “They’re your’s then?”
“They should be, lord. My father-in-law promised them to me as the bride’s price, and he’s yet to give them to me.”
“And you’ve spoken to him about this?”
“Yes, lord. As I said, he threatened to beat me senseless and throw me into the river if I ever brought it up again.”
“Ah, then the correct solution is for you to beat him senseless, take your sheep, and stop bothering me with your marital issues,” Eoin said, his voice returning to its normal haughty tone. “Honestly, can’t you lot solve your own problems?”
“My lord?” the peasant asked, a confused look on his face. “You wish for me to beat my father-in-law?”
“Was my decision unclear? Clean the dirt from your ears and listen when your betters address you!”
The peasant blanched, then bowed. “Thank you lord. I shall do as you advise.”
Eoin made a shooing motion with his hands. “Begone.” He barely noticed his clerk making a note in the register, but he clearly saw the man hold up four fingers.
Only four petitions all day, he thought as he stifled another yawn. The King’s Justice looked to the window, and was relieved to see that the sun was well beyond its zenith.
“The hour draws late,” he said in his most imperious tone. “His Majesty’s court shall hear but one more petition before adjourning for the week.” His clerk raised a hand and signaled for the next case.
A thin man, short of stature, but dressed in rich velvet the color of sunset over the western sea, stepped forward from the line formed at the back of the hall. As he approached, Eoin saw that the silk was stained with splashes of what looked to be wine, accented with sprinkles of what could only be blood.
Ah, finally something worth listening to!
“My lord,” the short man intoned in a high-pitched, nasally voice, “I am Jean-Andre de Spurgle, and I come to you for justice.” He bowed low, adding a complicated flourish of his arm and the wide-brimmed hat he clutched in his right hand. He held this pose for a precise three seconds, then brought himself upright and placed his hat back upon his head. The two long feathers adorning it waggled briefly as the little man drew his shoulders back and held his head as high as his thin neck would allow. Hovering to his side and just beyond him was a barrel chested man wearing a green coat with a sigil of what looked like a golden flower on his breast.
For a brief moment, the image of an orange peacock tended by a frog crossed Eoin’s vision. He had to fight hard to keep a smirk from crossing his face at the thought.
Behind him, two large men dressed in matching blue tunics stood to either side, and slightly behind, a third, larger man. This one wore plain clothes, visibly worn, and not recently laundered. Piercing blue eyes glared out from under reddish-blonde locks that hung down over his face. An unkempt beard, even more red than the man’s hair, adorned his chin and cheeks.
Eoin’s brow crinkled at the man’s accent. “From whence hail you, sir?” he inquired.
“I am an envoy from the court of His Most Royal Majesty, King Henri-Philippe of Anjou.”
“And what brings you to my Sovereign’s lands?”
“I come to this…” de Spurgle paused to consider his words, “kingdom for an audience with your King.”
“King Cormak? You have come too far, good sir. His home is but a bow shot from the harbor in Dovlinia.”
“No, no, no,” the foreigner said, tossing his feathered hat with each pronouncement, “I go to Tara, to speak with the king of this entire land.”
Eoin was taken aback at this. It was not often that travelers on their way to the High King’s palace passed through his district. “And your business with High King Darragh?”
De Spurgle tilted his chin toward Eoin, giving him a slight sneer. “My business is for your King’s ears alone, sir. I am enjoined from speaking of it with anyone but him.” The haughtiness of his reply caused his accent to thicken with every word.
Eoin’s eyes narrowed at this, but after a slow breath, he continued. “What justice do you seek with me, then?”
“This ruffian,” de Spurgle pointed a bony finger at the man standing behind him, “assaulted me!”
“Oh?”
“Yes!” De Spurgle raised one thin arm and pointed at the taller man behind him. “He laid hands upon me!”
“And?”
“And?” The foreigner’s face darkened with outrage. “And, you ask? I am a royal envoy of his most Gracious Majesty, and I demand justice.”
Eoin suppressed a sigh, then turned his eyes to the other man. “And you, sir? Who are you?”
“My name is Eikhelm, my lord,” the man replied. His soft voice was deep, with just a touch of a lilt to it.
“A Northman, eh?”
“On one side, lord.”
“And the other?”
“Eyrisch, lord.”
“Which county?
“My family is of Wicklow, sir. I am traveling there from my father’s lands across the sea.”
“Hmmm, and you chose today to get into altercation with a visitor to High King’s realm?”
“I did not choose to have an altercation, lord. I merely wished to rest for a few moments and have a wee nip of cider on a hot day.”
“Lies!” de Spurgle cut in. “He lies like all men of the North!”
Eoin could have sworn that the gloom was lit up with sparks from the Northman’s eyes, but the lean, weathered face moved not at all.
The justice tilted his head from side to side, then let out out a slow breath. “All right, then, tell me what transpired.” He looked from one man to the other, then back. “We shall start with you, Master de Spurgle.”
A thin smile lifted one corner of de Spurgle’s thin lips. “But of course, my lord.” His head dipped up and down in a rapid nod. “So, there I was, taking my leisure at an inn not five leagues from here….”
DaddyBear’s Den 