THE KING'S DAUGHTER - Chapter Six (The Plan)
“Balin!” the bellow came from the bedchamber early the next morning. Again came the angry cry of “BALIN!”, this time loud enough to make the cook in the cellar drop a small barrel of hard cider, which broke and soaked the hem of her dress and everything else situated on the floor. Her cry of anger and distress joined that of the young Viscount.
Balin answered his master’s call, while tenderly rubbing the growing bump on the back of his head. He had smacked it hard on the lid of the Viscounts trunk while fetching the young lordling’s clothing for the day. The yell had startled him mightily, causing his grip on the lid to go lax just long enough for gravity to take hold of the wooden plank and whack the back of his noggin. With a gut feeling as old as time Balin knew today was going to be a shitty day.
“Yes, milord?”
“I cannot find the letter I wrote yesterday and gave to you. Where did you put it to dry?”
“I put it on the table out here,” he gestured with his hand. “Let me get it.” Balin left the bedchamber, only to return with a hunted look on his face and a quiver in his voice. “Milord, I swears on me mother’s soul that I put it on the table to dry, I swear!”
“Are you telling me that it is no longer where you put it to dry, after I handed it to you?” Urlian blinked in rapid succession for a second, as his breathing became shallow and labored.
“Aye, milord.” Balin croaked the reply.
“Did it perhaps sprout legs and walk off, or perhaps wings? Where did it go, Balin?” The tone in Urlian’s voice was as much a threat as the shaking of a buxswyrm’s tail.
“It has to be here, milord, it has to be! No one else was in here except for the healer!” Balin eagerly cast the blame to someone else with low hope of saving his own hide.
“You think that the Pixxi took it?” The young Viscount sounded positively horrified. “Do you realize what that has just lost me? My bloody life is over because that bitch took my communiqué! My Gods! My life is forfeit! Thank you, Balin! Could you have put it in a more conspicuous place? If the Pixxi vixen did not find it, then perhaps the plump partridge of an Innkeeper would have traded it in for a bag of copper pennies. How like a peasant!”
Balin’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, but the Viscount took no notice, or else he did not care. How like a peasant? How like anyone who has to survive for a living! Why even the high and mighty nobility took such actions for revenge concerning rather petty things.
Wrapped up in his own thoughts, the Viscount continued after a slight pause. “You do realize that because of your stupidity, my life is to be shortened considerably, unless you get the correspondence back tonight.”
“Me, milord?” Balin gulped audibly.
“You, my dear Balin, are about to get a raise. Order a bath, and fetch breakfast from the kitchens. I think you will like my little plan.”
Balin broke out in a cold sweat for he knew that whatever the plan was to involve, did not bode well, but did as was ordered. While the servant was gone, Urlian opened each of his trunks and began digging around, pulling out an ivory silk tunic, and long indigo blue velvet doublet, embroidered heavily in a scroll design done with golden threads and accented with deep purple amethysts and creamy pearls. It was a very rich-looking garment, the apparent fortune of the wearer proudly displayed with the affluent decorations. A pair of black trunk hose, also embellished with gold thread, black jet and creamy golden pearls, this time in a diamond pattern joined the pile of expensive clothing on the bed. To finish it off, Urlian’s new riding boots and belt, both of inky black leather, soft, supple and expertly made.
Balin came trudging through the door, carrying a heavy oaken tub, which he set down near the fireplace. Following the valet was the Innkeeper and cook, each carrying a large bucket of steaming water, which they sloshed into the tub before leaving. Balin trailed after them, and upon his second arrival, carried a large tray of foodstuffs, which he set on the table in the antechamber. He prepared a trencher of hearty honey-wheat bread with a thick cereal, a thick slab of tender pink ham, a generous measure of stewed fruit in a cinnamon-nutmeg sauce and a chunk of mellow cheese, which he offered to the Viscount. There was an earthenware pitcher that enclosed cold hard cider, tasting like sweet apple juice, which the valet knew was a particular favorite of the Viscount. A proffered mug accompanied the handing over of silverware. Between bites, the Viscount laid out his plans for the retrieval of the letter.
“Well Balin, I want you to bathe completely, shave your face, and dress in these,” Urlian tossed the selected clothing minus the boots at Balin, “for you are about to become a wealthy lord.”
Balin knew he had no choice but to comply. The Viscount would not twitch an eyelash as he plunged a blade between ribs, for Balin had been present at a few of the duels his master had fought back home and had witnessed firsthand the cold detachment that Urlian oozed in tense situations. He was unpredictable and wild. He had no respect for his betters, or care for those below him. Why, back at Eisloh’n, the peasant girls knew better than to work at the castle, for fear that they would attract the roving eye of the Duke’s young heir. More than one of the village lasses had been beaten badly then brutally raped, and that was before the Viscount was a lad of thirteen! Urlian loved to dominate, and you could not refuse whatever was asked, for if you did not agree, the Viscount would exact a very savage revenge, which was always physical. So knowing full well that to refuse was to sign his own death pledge, Balin undressed and sank into the blissful depths of the water. It must have been years since he had taken a bath with heated water. He made do without that luxury— usually a horse trough or icy stream sufficed. Urlian walked over to the tub, uncorked a small green glass vial and poured out some pale blue scented oil. Upon hitting the water, the oil became an iridescent veil that released a sweet and earthy scent that tingled the nose and calmed one’s mind.
“What is that, milord, if I may ask?” Balin asked shyly between appreciative sniffs. He could not help asking. For the oddest reason, he felt like a leaf drifting on the wind, for he was so relaxed.
“’ It is an elixir of amber and vetivert. Cost me a pretty penny from a peddler, but ‘tis said that no one can resist whoever wears it.” The Viscount replied, pleased that Balin would cooperate so easily. He had fully expected some resistance, not easy compliance. Perhaps this Lammastide, Balin would get a few silver marks in addition to his usual wages, thought the Viscount, as he tossed a bar of soap into the tub, splashing Balin in the face on its way to the bottom of the tub. Fishing in the depths for the bar, Balin finally caught hold of the slippery mass, bathed in earnest. Then, while peering into a small mirror sitting atop a chair next to the tub, he began to shave his shaggy beard off, revealing a more youthful appearance. A squared chin with a hit a hint of dimples in his cheeks when he smiled, the servant became a more handsome man with each stroke of the razor. When finished with his toiletries, he dressed in the borrowed clothing.
Meanwhile, the Viscount collected Balin’s garb, and began to dress in them. They were quite rough against his skin, for they were of coarse wool, homespun and had a rather unappealing aroma about them. But, when dressed in them, Urlian looked like a scruffy crofter that had lost many a tavern brawl. It was the perfect disguise for someone such as he, who prided themselves for dressing flawlessly.
However, looking over the valet-turned-lord, Urlian felt a slight twinge of jealousy. Balin did justice to the rich garb, but there was something missing. No wealthy man ever traveled without an elegant blade, t’was a fact. Knowing that the disguise would not be complete without it, Urlian handed over his prized dirk to his servant. “I need not tell you what will happen if you lose this blade other than I will personally hang you by your own entrails pulled through your pisshole. We have an understanding?”
“Aye, milord.” Balin cut a fine figure in his borrowed costume. His chestnut colored locks were longer than what current style dictated, but workable. The rich and elegant clothing but enhanced the newly-made lord’s rugged good looks. The indigo velvet doublet hung just below Balin’s knees, and had slits up each side, for ease of riding, as did the silk tunic beneath it. The ivory sleeves puffed out a bit through the slashes in the doublet sleeves, which got tighter near the forearm. The Viscount was kind enough to include a pair of black leather vambraces, which had cutouts, showing the indigo colored fabric underneath. The trunk hose enclosed his legs, and the riding boots came up to the knee and had a slight turn-up at the toe. The dirk in its silver jeweled scabbard was hung from the belt, along with a sack of coins.
All Balin needed now was a name and a history.
Thank you for reading! If you’d like more of the story, help yourself to the rest of the posted chapters: