BROGWIN FRAYNEY AND HOW HE NEARLY SAVED A KINGDOM
by Mary Vettel
Prologue
Long ago before time began, well, before twelve-year-old Brogwin Frayney could tell time, was a land called Wagetannia. Snug between England and France, in the middle of the English Channel, 14th Century medieval Wagetannia was ruled by the firm but fair hands of King Arnotto and Queen Cecilie. Until their only child, thirteen-year-old Prince Jocko caused the kingdom to explode.
To the English and French, Wagetannia served as a convenient land bridge between them, saving both nations the bother with boats across the English Channel which was helpful especially in bad weather when the seas could be rough. The 21 mile journey from country to country could be made in a day’s travel if you had a well shod horse; from its chalky western border touching Dover, England to its eastern edge which cozied up to Calais, France. But the land at this eastern boundary ended abruptly in a sheer cliff and the two nations were joined by a 150-foot long wooden bridge. It was not a drawbridge, but simply a flat, inert bridge, because the space between the two countries was too narrow for any boats to pass through. But let them tell their story…
Chapter 1
Brogwin Frayney and his best friend Prince Jocko lounged on the lawn on the upwind side of the castle’s moat. Both boys knew the young prince should be heading for the Great Hall for his afternoon’s lessons but, as the sun shifted slightly westward, they remained reclining on the grass.
Tired of practicing his nautical knots, Prince Jocko dropped his length of rope on the grass. “Though there be wicked trolls under yon bridge, should the King or Queen command you to cross it, would you?”
Brogwin swallowed nervously, sat up, and laid his right fist over his heart. “By my faith, my allegiance is to my king and queen. Bravely would I cross yonder Bridge to Calais.”
Prince Jocko rocked back and laughed at his friend’s attempt at bravery. “With a phalanx of knights to protect thee.”
Brogwin’s cheeks pinked. “And what of you?” he asked, quick to shift the attention from his failed boast.
“Me? Remember, Broggie, I shall one day be king of Wagetannia and the king of Wagetannia cannot be fearful of a lowly troll.”
“It would be well that you do not settle your princely bottom prematurely onto that throne, Jocko. For I am privy to your fear of the hideous trolls that dwell below yonder bridge. As well as your fear of witches, gargoyles, gryphons, wyverns and dragons.”
“Only a fool would not fear those things,” Prince Jocko replied. “Even with this to protect me,” he said and fingered the small black crystal on the leather cord round his neck. “I am smart enough to be fearful of dreadful monsters.”
“This is goodly news, Jocko.” Brogwin yawned and stretched. “For your future may well depend upon more than a piece of black crystal from your father’s magician.”
“Do you doubt Crenwell’s magic?” Prince Jocko asked.
Brogwin shrugged. “I know not if Crenwell is a true magician or if he has a distracting manner and skillful swift hands.”
“Ah, but he has one trick up his bliaut sleeve,” Prince Jocko said and looked about, making sure they were far enough from the crenellated castle wall that no guard or sentry could hear him. “He has managed to keep the Duke of Dunstable a believer.” Prince Jocko mocked the Duke with an impression of his being surprised and delighted by some sleight of hand performed by Crenwell.
Brogwin chuckled. “Or, is Dunstable the magician keeping Crenwell in awe?” he asked and threw a small stone with all his might at the castle curtain.
“Oi!” came a shout from atop the parapet.
Prince Jocko and Brogwin jumped to their feet, shielded their eyes and gazed up at the place whence the voice erupted.
“O! Prince Jocko! Begging your pardon, m’lord,” the guard called down to the boys. “I thought you were some lads from the town.”
Prince Jocko gave a pleasant wave, letting the man know there were no hard feelings.
“You have leaves in your hair,” Brogwin said. He patted his own hair to make sure it was tidy.
“You care more for leaves in my hair than your king’s magician?”
“Sir Aubrey Wynkyn is likely pacing the King’s library for your afternoon lessons. Why he bothers I don't know. For all that is within your skull could be poured into a thimble, yet not filling it to half its volume.”
Prince Jocko swatted at his friend. “You lumpish hedge-born badger! I took you for your better,” Prince Jocko spoke harshly but jokingly to Brogwin.
“Alas, m’lord,” Brogwin said and bowed deeply. “I mourn your misjudgment. Tarry not for your tutor awaits for a discourse on unicorns and pixies, me thinks.”
“You, minion, are too saucy,” Prince Jocko said and dusted his woolen chaussens free of grass and leaves, trying to hide his amusement from Brogwin.
“And you, you are a most flatulent Plantagenet."
“You are a vile hunch-backed chamber pot sniffer,” Prince Jocko said and laughed. “Come. Let us to the stables. If I must be holed up with Sir Aubrey Wynkyn all afternoon and smell his armpits from two fathoms off, I would but lay a gentle hand upon Beauchance’s black velvet mane and fill my nostrils with his heady scent.”
“You are already late. There will be plenty of time for inhaling your horse.”
Prince Jocko closed his eyes and took a long deep breath. “Does not Beauchance possess a special smell? ‘Tis regal, ‘tis it not?”
Brogwin rolled his eyes. “Aye, m’lord. Your body odor and that of your horse are so similar as to be interchangeable,” he teased. “Come!” Brogwin gave Prince Jocko’s hair another swat. “If your governess sees a single leaf in your hair she will paddle your princely bottom with her trusty oak truncheon.”
“Missus Bigman would not dare put truncheon to my royal bottom,” he assured Brogwin as he turned his back to him and jutted out his behind.
“Look yonder, Jocko. Your valiant steed Beauchance waits not.” Brogwin indicated the prince’s horse galloping in the north paddock sunshine. “Sir Leighton rides him well.” He pointed to the knight putting the prince’s horse through his paces. “He no doubt readies him for the upcoming jousting.” Brogwin grinned at the prince, eager for the impending festivities. “Alas, your nostrils must struggle against Sir Aubrey’s stale body odor. Be strong, my friend.” He patted Prince Jocko’s shoulder. “Hurry. There are dates and battles to learn.” Brogwin lead the way through the barbican, across the lowered drawbridge, through the raised portcullis and into the gatehouse. The two boys emerged within the bailey of the castle walls and headed for the path to the kitchen’s herb garden.
“Why the long way round?” Prince Jocko complained as he followed Brogwin to the rear of the castle.
“Your governess is fond of lavender and the kitchen’s herb garden is full of the stuff.” He tapped the side of his nose with the tip of his finger.
Prince Jocko’s face contorted. “Do you mean that you wish me to pick a bouquet of lavender for Missus Bigman?”
Brogwin rolled his eyes at his friend’s thick-headedness and hurried along the limestone path.
“Which ones are they?” Prince Jocko asked gazing about himself in a sea of fragrant greenery.
“Does your royal nose know not?” Brogwin joked. He picked a spearmint leaf and put it in his mouth.
“That?” Prince Jocko asked and stepped toward the patch of spearmint.
“Sniff again, blockhead.”
“Blockhead?! Do not forget your standing, Broggie. You are merely the royal food taster,” Prince Jocko cautioned and stamped his foot. “Do not give me your lapis lazuli orbs. Save their fluttering for the likes of Irmagarde, the new scullery maid.”
Brogwin bowed deeply. “Aye, m’lord, your royal blockhead.” He laughed and leaned against the wall of the greenhouse where the more delicate herbs grew.
Prince Jocko slowly turned all directions of the compass squinting and sniffing at the aromatic garden. “O! Blast Missus Bigman and her beastly lavender.” He gasped as just then his imposing governess stepped out through the open kitchen door. His brown eyes grew wider with fear at being admonished and he turned to Brogwin.
“I bid you a most pleasant day, Missus Bigman,” Brogwin said and gave a short bow to the stout woman with the stern features.
Missus Bigman smiled upon Brogwin as most grownups smile upon a boy who is polite and knows his place.
“Our young Prince Jocko here was just saying how he wished to pick a wee bouquet of sweet lavender. For he knows how fond of it you be.”
“Is that so?” Missus Bigman asked doubtfully and turned to Prince Jocko.
“Aye, Missus,” Prince Jocko said and gave his friend a grateful look.
With a wink, Brogwin pointed over his shoulder toward a patch of lavender. “I beseech thee my leave, m’lord, to go for my dinner.”
“Huh? Oh, aye, aye, be gone, Broggie.” He waved away his friend as he picked a handful of lavender.
“Stay,” Missus Bigman addressed Brogwin. “Pick a goodly supply of skullcap. The seeds are much needed for a headache potion for our Lady.”
“Anything for my Queen. But O! My stomach chides me for dallying this long morning from table. A trencher of egg and cheese may put rest to the noise.” Brogwin overacted and rubbed his rumbling tummy. “And wasn’t I taught by your very own lips, Missus Bigman, that skullcap was to be picked with gentle, steady fingers when the sun is directly overhead?” He made his fingers shake dramatically.
Missus Bigman chuckled. “Pledge to me you will return anon to the task.”
"Oh, yes, Missus."
“Off with you, then.” The robust woman waved him away.
“Exquisitus!” Brogwin beamed and bowed deeply, his hair touching the stone of the path. “Missus, you have my word and undying gratitude. For you and my good Lady, the Queen.” He rose and skipped off quickly into the castle’s kitchen.
“I will gladly pick the skullcap for my Queen,” Prince Jocko offered. “My dear mother’s headaches do beastly vex her.”
“Prince Jocko will remove words such as beastly from your vocabulary for it provokes a commoner’s vulgar speech.”
“Begging your pardon, Missus Bigman.” Red splotches appeared on Prince Jocko's cheeks. He handed her the few pieces of lavender he had yanked haphazardly from the plant.
“Come along, Prince Jocko. Sir Aubrey Wynkyn awaits.”
“But good lady, my tummy growls bombastically.”
“Make haste to complete your lessons and your dinner will present itself.” Missus Bigman gave Prince Jocko’s shoulder a firm squeeze, directing him into the kitchen, through the doorway to the Great Hall and a swat on his bottom intended to direct him onward to the tutor pacing in the library.
“My good woman!” Prince Jocko gasped and turned. “Do not permit my youth to belie the royal Plantagenet lineage within my veins. I caution you to put an end to your taking liberty with my person.” He glared up at her and stomped his foot.
Missus Bigman gave a quick curtsy and folded her hands contritely against her apron. “Yes, Prince Jocko. Along with you,” she said a bit more kindly.
“O! But madam, Sir Aubrey Wynkyn treats me like a baby, asking me the most simple-minded questions; thinking I am stupider than I be. He is a bore.” Prince Jocko sighed. “And his body odor makes me weak-kneed.”
“Stand up straight, young sir,” Missus Bigman said sharply. “Thou art more than fortunate to have Sir Aubrey as thy tutor. Show thy vibrant intelligence and by and by his questions shall no doubt increase in difficulty.”
“And as for his foul odor?” Prince Jocko saw Brogwin tip-toeing quietly from the kitchen toward the Great Hall. He took from behind his back a lump covered with a small muslin towel and licked his lips to indicate to Prince Jocko what a tasty treat it was he carried. Prince Jocko refused to acknowledge his friend’s gesture, though his stomach grumbled loudly and he salivated at the surprise beneath the muslin.
Missus Bigman removed a swatch of plainly embroidered white linen from within her long sleeve and offered it to Prince Jocko. “Sniff.”
Prince Jocko cautiously raised the handkerchief to his nose and took a tentative sniff at the cloth where there was a pocket in the center filled with leaves of lavender. “Thank you, Missus Bigman,” Prince Jocko said and handed it back to his governess. “I shall position myself nearby an open window.” He shot a glance at Brogwin.
“How now my sweet prince?” Brogwin asked, having carefully placed the food behind his back. “Come along and show thy tutor what you are made of,” Brogwin said for Missus Bigman’s benefit.
“Aye,” Missus Bigman agreed and gazed with affection upon Brogwin. She turned abruptly and hurried away, stuffing her scented handkerchief back up her sleeve.
“Look how her wee feet scurry her corpulence anon to the kitchen.” Brogwin shoved the muslin-covered dish at his friend. “She waddles like a spinning top about to stop and tilt over, like a wounded knight at a jousting tournament.”
Normally Prince Jocko would laugh at Brogwin’s jokes but his present ire prevented it. “The insolent clay-brained moldwarp!” he breathed his complaint and shoved a quarter of the thick brown bread trencher of egg and cheese into his mouth and chewed rapidly. “Does she wish me to fill my nose with her beastly lavender and think of her during my tutorials?” He shook his head at the idea. “Did thy good mother make this trencher?” He held a wedge of the thick dark bread aloft and gazed lovingly upon it.
“You know not the people in your own castle’s kitchen, thy jibber-brained pike?”
“There must be more than thirty and five servants,” Prince Jocko complained, and took another greedy bite. “How couldst thou expect me to know them and their duties?”
Brogwin shook his head at his friend’s ignorance. “Nay. My good mother, is the Royal Cook. She directs and oversees all that is to be cooked. Your father, the King, likes the molasses trencher bread and she has instructed the royal baker to prepare it daily.” Brogwin backed away. “Make haste to your lessons. To the royal kennel I gang to see the new litter of greyhound pups.”
“Do not go now,” Prince Jocko said and shoved the last wedge into his mouth.
“Alas, the whelps call to me,” Brogwin said and cupped an ear as though to hear them.
“Pray, stay my lesson with me, Broggie, and I shall reward thee for thy good grace with a pup of thy choosing.”
“If thou wouldst need my bolstering presence…” he grinned at his prince. He motioned for Prince Jocko to clear the crumbs from his lips, then stopped the older boy from knocking upon the thick oaken library door. “This is your castle,” Brogwin reminded him in a hushed voice. “Enter bravely as its future king and master.”
Encouraged by Brogwin’s words, Prince Jocko stood taller and walked into the library with its dust motes languidly streaming in at the quatrefoil windows. “Ahh, Sir Wynkyn,” Prince Jocko called casually as he had seen his father, the King, do. He walked to the globe on the oak pedestal beside his father’s beautifully carved desk, touched the spot that marked Wagetannia and gave it a gentle spin. He poured himself a cup of lemon water, downed it and dragged the back of his hand across his wet lips.
Brogwin silently hugged the wall near the door and inched his way to the nearby wooden bench.
Sir Aubrey Wynkyn spun round on the prince. “Twenty and one minutes have I paced this room.” The vein in his damp forehead grew more pronounced.
“Reading a book would have made better use of thy time,” Prince Jocko retorted off-handedly and refilled the stone cup.
Brogwin chewed his lip to keep a guffaw at bay but silently cheered his friend.
Sir Aubrey Wynkyn audibly gasped. “Of all the ill-mannered--”
“I am thy prince,” Jocko reminded the man and stood tall to his full height. “You are a hired laborer, Sir Aubrey, an educated laborer, but a laborer still, as a ditch digger. If you care not for the pieces of gold my father, the king, pays thee, feel free to gang elsewhere. Let us not detain thee from thy other pressing needs. ”
Brogwin held his breath, his wide eyes watching Sir Aubrey’s face suffer a series of tics, twitches, jerks, and contortions as the tutor obviously struggled with his decision.
“And while I am being so forthright with you, Sir Aubrey, I tell you this in a not unkind way but it would do you well to bathe with more frequency so as to be less offensive with your odors.”
Sir Aubrey’s jaw dropped. The man looked positively apoplectic. The prominent vein on his forehead shimmied and writhed and his cheeks blew in and out like a well-used bellows. Specks of spittle dotted his lips as his eyes swirled madly in his skull.
Prince Jocko refused to steal a glance across the room at Brogwin. And Brogwin knew if he looked at Prince Jocko he would burst, so instead kept his eyes on Sir Aubrey’s constantly moving face.
Sir Wynkyn took several attempts to swallow, cleared his throat and began with a shaky, croaking voice. “In the winter of 1345--”
“We have done that,” Prince Jocko said in a bored voice and rolled his eyes.
“Aye, m’lord. In the summer of 1346,” Sir Wynkyn commenced the lesson. “King Edward III…”
“Of England,” Prince Jocko responded, his voice revealing his disinterest.
Brogwin slid silently onto a wooden bench against the wall and allowed his lungs to slowly, quietly exhale.
Sir Wynkyn nodded and dabbed at his damp, bulging forehead with the drab chestnut brown sleeve of his côte-hardi. “Amassed an army at Portsmouth and invaded Normandy…”
“France,” Prince Jocko answered.
“Very good, m’lord. Though the Magna Carta, written in the year of our Lord…”
“Twelve hundred and fifteen,” Prince Jocko answered and sat at his father’s desk.
“Quite so. As you say, m’lord. Written in 1215, clearly banned the use of crossbows, but they were used – and are to this day.” He pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand, startling the two boys. “The English and French armies met at Crecy where 12,000 English faced a force of 36,000 French. But the French archers were no match for the English longbows and the French were slaughtered. Large numbers of French nobility were captured or killed.”
Brogwin rose quietly from the wooden bench and slipped from the room.
“Of all the impertinence,” Sir Wynkyn commented, his voice echoing in the large chamber, reverberating off the bookshelves filled with leather-bound, gilt-edged volumes in Latin and Greek.
Prince Jocko cleared his throat, a subtle warning to mind his words about Brogwin. “Do not think Master Frayney impertinent, tutor. His beloved father, Fordwyn Frayney, had been the highly regarded atilliator to my own beloved father, King Arnotto, from his apprenticeship to his father before him.” Prince Jocko shifted his gaze to the dust motes hovering mid-air in the shafts of sunlight through the windows.
With a cracking of his knuckles, Prince Jocko continued. “The traditional English bow is the short-bow, with a range of no more than 200 yards. The long-bow launches arrows faster than any previous bows. Though a skilled long-bowman can release betwixt ten and twelve arrows per minute, it requires considerable training. The crossbow’s range is 350–400 yards but can only be shot at a rate of two bolts per minute. Its rate of fire is slow and the archer needs protection whilst drawing his bow. And so shelters himself with a tall shield known as a pavise. The crossbow is easy to use, requiring minimal training and little strength to operate. An aging man, child, even a woman could work it. But it shoots too few bolts.”
“I see Prince Jocko has been studying,” was all Sir Aubrey could think to say.
“Legend of Lord Frayney’s skills at making the finest, truest crossbows spread across all of Wagetannia and on into neighboring England and France. ‘Twas a more accurate weapon, with a longer range, and the quarrel which it fired was in all respects more deadly than a simple arrow. Lord Frayney was commissioned to produce crossbows at such a pace his artisans and apprentices couldst not meet the demand. As soon as a dozen were completed, they were whisked away and stored under lock and key. Or so he thought. When one of Lord Frayney’s atilliator’s was found prostrate from exhaustion and nearly trampled by an arriving horse, he went to my father for help.”
Sir Aubrey parted his lips to speak but a raised hand from Prince Jocko kept his silence.
“My father, King Arnotto, knew nothing of the charge to produce such stores of weaponry,” Prince Jocko said softly for effect. “And when the command went out to find these crossbows, the storerooms were found … empty.”
It worked. Sir Aubrey gasped and furrowed his brow. “But who--”
“There are those who have questions and those who have answers,” Prince Jocko said, hoping to sound vague and avoiding pointing fingers of guilt at anyone in particular.
“What, what happened to Lord Frayney?” Sir Aubrey whispered.
“Shot through the heart with one of his own bolts,” Prince Jocko barely spoke the words.
Sir Aubrey slumped back into his chair, swallowed slowly, and looked to Prince Jocko like a man who felt unsafe and was perhaps wondering had he made the right decision to remain.
Long ago before time began, well, before twelve-year-old Brogwin Frayney could tell time, was a land called Wagetannia. Snug between England and France, in the middle of the English Channel, 14th Century medieval Wagetannia was ruled by the firm but fair hands of King Arnotto and Queen Cecilie. Until their only child, thirteen-year-old Prince Jocko caused the kingdom to explode.
To the English and French, Wagetannia served as a convenient land bridge between them, saving both nations the bother with boats across the English Channel which was helpful especially in bad weather when the seas could be rough. The 21 mile journey from country to country could be made in a day’s travel if you had a well shod horse; from its chalky western border touching Dover, England to its eastern edge which cozied up to Calais, France. But the land at this eastern boundary ended abruptly in a sheer cliff and the two nations were joined by a 150-foot long wooden bridge. It was not a drawbridge, but simply a flat, inert bridge, because the space between the two countries was too narrow for any boats to pass through. But let them tell their story…
Chapter 1
Brogwin Frayney and his best friend Prince Jocko lounged on the lawn on the upwind side of the castle’s moat. Both boys knew the young prince should be heading for the Great Hall for his afternoon’s lessons but, as the sun shifted slightly westward, they remained reclining on the grass.
Tired of practicing his nautical knots, Prince Jocko dropped his length of rope on the grass. “Though there be wicked trolls under yon bridge, should the King or Queen command you to cross it, would you?”
Brogwin swallowed nervously, sat up, and laid his right fist over his heart. “By my faith, my allegiance is to my king and queen. Bravely would I cross yonder Bridge to Calais.”
Prince Jocko rocked back and laughed at his friend’s attempt at bravery. “With a phalanx of knights to protect thee.”
Brogwin’s cheeks pinked. “And what of you?” he asked, quick to shift the attention from his failed boast.
“Me? Remember, Broggie, I shall one day be king of Wagetannia and the king of Wagetannia cannot be fearful of a lowly troll.”
“It would be well that you do not settle your princely bottom prematurely onto that throne, Jocko. For I am privy to your fear of the hideous trolls that dwell below yonder bridge. As well as your fear of witches, gargoyles, gryphons, wyverns and dragons.”
“Only a fool would not fear those things,” Prince Jocko replied. “Even with this to protect me,” he said and fingered the small black crystal on the leather cord round his neck. “I am smart enough to be fearful of dreadful monsters.”
“This is goodly news, Jocko.” Brogwin yawned and stretched. “For your future may well depend upon more than a piece of black crystal from your father’s magician.”
“Do you doubt Crenwell’s magic?” Prince Jocko asked.
Brogwin shrugged. “I know not if Crenwell is a true magician or if he has a distracting manner and skillful swift hands.”
“Ah, but he has one trick up his bliaut sleeve,” Prince Jocko said and looked about, making sure they were far enough from the crenellated castle wall that no guard or sentry could hear him. “He has managed to keep the Duke of Dunstable a believer.” Prince Jocko mocked the Duke with an impression of his being surprised and delighted by some sleight of hand performed by Crenwell.
Brogwin chuckled. “Or, is Dunstable the magician keeping Crenwell in awe?” he asked and threw a small stone with all his might at the castle curtain.
“Oi!” came a shout from atop the parapet.
Prince Jocko and Brogwin jumped to their feet, shielded their eyes and gazed up at the place whence the voice erupted.
“O! Prince Jocko! Begging your pardon, m’lord,” the guard called down to the boys. “I thought you were some lads from the town.”
Prince Jocko gave a pleasant wave, letting the man know there were no hard feelings.
“You have leaves in your hair,” Brogwin said. He patted his own hair to make sure it was tidy.
“You care more for leaves in my hair than your king’s magician?”
“Sir Aubrey Wynkyn is likely pacing the King’s library for your afternoon lessons. Why he bothers I don't know. For all that is within your skull could be poured into a thimble, yet not filling it to half its volume.”
Prince Jocko swatted at his friend. “You lumpish hedge-born badger! I took you for your better,” Prince Jocko spoke harshly but jokingly to Brogwin.
“Alas, m’lord,” Brogwin said and bowed deeply. “I mourn your misjudgment. Tarry not for your tutor awaits for a discourse on unicorns and pixies, me thinks.”
“You, minion, are too saucy,” Prince Jocko said and dusted his woolen chaussens free of grass and leaves, trying to hide his amusement from Brogwin.
“And you, you are a most flatulent Plantagenet."
“You are a vile hunch-backed chamber pot sniffer,” Prince Jocko said and laughed. “Come. Let us to the stables. If I must be holed up with Sir Aubrey Wynkyn all afternoon and smell his armpits from two fathoms off, I would but lay a gentle hand upon Beauchance’s black velvet mane and fill my nostrils with his heady scent.”
“You are already late. There will be plenty of time for inhaling your horse.”
Prince Jocko closed his eyes and took a long deep breath. “Does not Beauchance possess a special smell? ‘Tis regal, ‘tis it not?”
Brogwin rolled his eyes. “Aye, m’lord. Your body odor and that of your horse are so similar as to be interchangeable,” he teased. “Come!” Brogwin gave Prince Jocko’s hair another swat. “If your governess sees a single leaf in your hair she will paddle your princely bottom with her trusty oak truncheon.”
“Missus Bigman would not dare put truncheon to my royal bottom,” he assured Brogwin as he turned his back to him and jutted out his behind.
“Look yonder, Jocko. Your valiant steed Beauchance waits not.” Brogwin indicated the prince’s horse galloping in the north paddock sunshine. “Sir Leighton rides him well.” He pointed to the knight putting the prince’s horse through his paces. “He no doubt readies him for the upcoming jousting.” Brogwin grinned at the prince, eager for the impending festivities. “Alas, your nostrils must struggle against Sir Aubrey’s stale body odor. Be strong, my friend.” He patted Prince Jocko’s shoulder. “Hurry. There are dates and battles to learn.” Brogwin lead the way through the barbican, across the lowered drawbridge, through the raised portcullis and into the gatehouse. The two boys emerged within the bailey of the castle walls and headed for the path to the kitchen’s herb garden.
“Why the long way round?” Prince Jocko complained as he followed Brogwin to the rear of the castle.
“Your governess is fond of lavender and the kitchen’s herb garden is full of the stuff.” He tapped the side of his nose with the tip of his finger.
Prince Jocko’s face contorted. “Do you mean that you wish me to pick a bouquet of lavender for Missus Bigman?”
Brogwin rolled his eyes at his friend’s thick-headedness and hurried along the limestone path.
“Which ones are they?” Prince Jocko asked gazing about himself in a sea of fragrant greenery.
“Does your royal nose know not?” Brogwin joked. He picked a spearmint leaf and put it in his mouth.
“That?” Prince Jocko asked and stepped toward the patch of spearmint.
“Sniff again, blockhead.”
“Blockhead?! Do not forget your standing, Broggie. You are merely the royal food taster,” Prince Jocko cautioned and stamped his foot. “Do not give me your lapis lazuli orbs. Save their fluttering for the likes of Irmagarde, the new scullery maid.”
Brogwin bowed deeply. “Aye, m’lord, your royal blockhead.” He laughed and leaned against the wall of the greenhouse where the more delicate herbs grew.
Prince Jocko slowly turned all directions of the compass squinting and sniffing at the aromatic garden. “O! Blast Missus Bigman and her beastly lavender.” He gasped as just then his imposing governess stepped out through the open kitchen door. His brown eyes grew wider with fear at being admonished and he turned to Brogwin.
“I bid you a most pleasant day, Missus Bigman,” Brogwin said and gave a short bow to the stout woman with the stern features.
Missus Bigman smiled upon Brogwin as most grownups smile upon a boy who is polite and knows his place.
“Our young Prince Jocko here was just saying how he wished to pick a wee bouquet of sweet lavender. For he knows how fond of it you be.”
“Is that so?” Missus Bigman asked doubtfully and turned to Prince Jocko.
“Aye, Missus,” Prince Jocko said and gave his friend a grateful look.
With a wink, Brogwin pointed over his shoulder toward a patch of lavender. “I beseech thee my leave, m’lord, to go for my dinner.”
“Huh? Oh, aye, aye, be gone, Broggie.” He waved away his friend as he picked a handful of lavender.
“Stay,” Missus Bigman addressed Brogwin. “Pick a goodly supply of skullcap. The seeds are much needed for a headache potion for our Lady.”
“Anything for my Queen. But O! My stomach chides me for dallying this long morning from table. A trencher of egg and cheese may put rest to the noise.” Brogwin overacted and rubbed his rumbling tummy. “And wasn’t I taught by your very own lips, Missus Bigman, that skullcap was to be picked with gentle, steady fingers when the sun is directly overhead?” He made his fingers shake dramatically.
Missus Bigman chuckled. “Pledge to me you will return anon to the task.”
"Oh, yes, Missus."
“Off with you, then.” The robust woman waved him away.
“Exquisitus!” Brogwin beamed and bowed deeply, his hair touching the stone of the path. “Missus, you have my word and undying gratitude. For you and my good Lady, the Queen.” He rose and skipped off quickly into the castle’s kitchen.
“I will gladly pick the skullcap for my Queen,” Prince Jocko offered. “My dear mother’s headaches do beastly vex her.”
“Prince Jocko will remove words such as beastly from your vocabulary for it provokes a commoner’s vulgar speech.”
“Begging your pardon, Missus Bigman.” Red splotches appeared on Prince Jocko's cheeks. He handed her the few pieces of lavender he had yanked haphazardly from the plant.
“Come along, Prince Jocko. Sir Aubrey Wynkyn awaits.”
“But good lady, my tummy growls bombastically.”
“Make haste to complete your lessons and your dinner will present itself.” Missus Bigman gave Prince Jocko’s shoulder a firm squeeze, directing him into the kitchen, through the doorway to the Great Hall and a swat on his bottom intended to direct him onward to the tutor pacing in the library.
“My good woman!” Prince Jocko gasped and turned. “Do not permit my youth to belie the royal Plantagenet lineage within my veins. I caution you to put an end to your taking liberty with my person.” He glared up at her and stomped his foot.
Missus Bigman gave a quick curtsy and folded her hands contritely against her apron. “Yes, Prince Jocko. Along with you,” she said a bit more kindly.
“O! But madam, Sir Aubrey Wynkyn treats me like a baby, asking me the most simple-minded questions; thinking I am stupider than I be. He is a bore.” Prince Jocko sighed. “And his body odor makes me weak-kneed.”
“Stand up straight, young sir,” Missus Bigman said sharply. “Thou art more than fortunate to have Sir Aubrey as thy tutor. Show thy vibrant intelligence and by and by his questions shall no doubt increase in difficulty.”
“And as for his foul odor?” Prince Jocko saw Brogwin tip-toeing quietly from the kitchen toward the Great Hall. He took from behind his back a lump covered with a small muslin towel and licked his lips to indicate to Prince Jocko what a tasty treat it was he carried. Prince Jocko refused to acknowledge his friend’s gesture, though his stomach grumbled loudly and he salivated at the surprise beneath the muslin.
Missus Bigman removed a swatch of plainly embroidered white linen from within her long sleeve and offered it to Prince Jocko. “Sniff.”
Prince Jocko cautiously raised the handkerchief to his nose and took a tentative sniff at the cloth where there was a pocket in the center filled with leaves of lavender. “Thank you, Missus Bigman,” Prince Jocko said and handed it back to his governess. “I shall position myself nearby an open window.” He shot a glance at Brogwin.
“How now my sweet prince?” Brogwin asked, having carefully placed the food behind his back. “Come along and show thy tutor what you are made of,” Brogwin said for Missus Bigman’s benefit.
“Aye,” Missus Bigman agreed and gazed with affection upon Brogwin. She turned abruptly and hurried away, stuffing her scented handkerchief back up her sleeve.
“Look how her wee feet scurry her corpulence anon to the kitchen.” Brogwin shoved the muslin-covered dish at his friend. “She waddles like a spinning top about to stop and tilt over, like a wounded knight at a jousting tournament.”
Normally Prince Jocko would laugh at Brogwin’s jokes but his present ire prevented it. “The insolent clay-brained moldwarp!” he breathed his complaint and shoved a quarter of the thick brown bread trencher of egg and cheese into his mouth and chewed rapidly. “Does she wish me to fill my nose with her beastly lavender and think of her during my tutorials?” He shook his head at the idea. “Did thy good mother make this trencher?” He held a wedge of the thick dark bread aloft and gazed lovingly upon it.
“You know not the people in your own castle’s kitchen, thy jibber-brained pike?”
“There must be more than thirty and five servants,” Prince Jocko complained, and took another greedy bite. “How couldst thou expect me to know them and their duties?”
Brogwin shook his head at his friend’s ignorance. “Nay. My good mother, is the Royal Cook. She directs and oversees all that is to be cooked. Your father, the King, likes the molasses trencher bread and she has instructed the royal baker to prepare it daily.” Brogwin backed away. “Make haste to your lessons. To the royal kennel I gang to see the new litter of greyhound pups.”
“Do not go now,” Prince Jocko said and shoved the last wedge into his mouth.
“Alas, the whelps call to me,” Brogwin said and cupped an ear as though to hear them.
“Pray, stay my lesson with me, Broggie, and I shall reward thee for thy good grace with a pup of thy choosing.”
“If thou wouldst need my bolstering presence…” he grinned at his prince. He motioned for Prince Jocko to clear the crumbs from his lips, then stopped the older boy from knocking upon the thick oaken library door. “This is your castle,” Brogwin reminded him in a hushed voice. “Enter bravely as its future king and master.”
Encouraged by Brogwin’s words, Prince Jocko stood taller and walked into the library with its dust motes languidly streaming in at the quatrefoil windows. “Ahh, Sir Wynkyn,” Prince Jocko called casually as he had seen his father, the King, do. He walked to the globe on the oak pedestal beside his father’s beautifully carved desk, touched the spot that marked Wagetannia and gave it a gentle spin. He poured himself a cup of lemon water, downed it and dragged the back of his hand across his wet lips.
Brogwin silently hugged the wall near the door and inched his way to the nearby wooden bench.
Sir Aubrey Wynkyn spun round on the prince. “Twenty and one minutes have I paced this room.” The vein in his damp forehead grew more pronounced.
“Reading a book would have made better use of thy time,” Prince Jocko retorted off-handedly and refilled the stone cup.
Brogwin chewed his lip to keep a guffaw at bay but silently cheered his friend.
Sir Aubrey Wynkyn audibly gasped. “Of all the ill-mannered--”
“I am thy prince,” Jocko reminded the man and stood tall to his full height. “You are a hired laborer, Sir Aubrey, an educated laborer, but a laborer still, as a ditch digger. If you care not for the pieces of gold my father, the king, pays thee, feel free to gang elsewhere. Let us not detain thee from thy other pressing needs. ”
Brogwin held his breath, his wide eyes watching Sir Aubrey’s face suffer a series of tics, twitches, jerks, and contortions as the tutor obviously struggled with his decision.
“And while I am being so forthright with you, Sir Aubrey, I tell you this in a not unkind way but it would do you well to bathe with more frequency so as to be less offensive with your odors.”
Sir Aubrey’s jaw dropped. The man looked positively apoplectic. The prominent vein on his forehead shimmied and writhed and his cheeks blew in and out like a well-used bellows. Specks of spittle dotted his lips as his eyes swirled madly in his skull.
Prince Jocko refused to steal a glance across the room at Brogwin. And Brogwin knew if he looked at Prince Jocko he would burst, so instead kept his eyes on Sir Aubrey’s constantly moving face.
Sir Wynkyn took several attempts to swallow, cleared his throat and began with a shaky, croaking voice. “In the winter of 1345--”
“We have done that,” Prince Jocko said in a bored voice and rolled his eyes.
“Aye, m’lord. In the summer of 1346,” Sir Wynkyn commenced the lesson. “King Edward III…”
“Of England,” Prince Jocko responded, his voice revealing his disinterest.
Brogwin slid silently onto a wooden bench against the wall and allowed his lungs to slowly, quietly exhale.
Sir Wynkyn nodded and dabbed at his damp, bulging forehead with the drab chestnut brown sleeve of his côte-hardi. “Amassed an army at Portsmouth and invaded Normandy…”
“France,” Prince Jocko answered.
“Very good, m’lord. Though the Magna Carta, written in the year of our Lord…”
“Twelve hundred and fifteen,” Prince Jocko answered and sat at his father’s desk.
“Quite so. As you say, m’lord. Written in 1215, clearly banned the use of crossbows, but they were used – and are to this day.” He pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand, startling the two boys. “The English and French armies met at Crecy where 12,000 English faced a force of 36,000 French. But the French archers were no match for the English longbows and the French were slaughtered. Large numbers of French nobility were captured or killed.”
Brogwin rose quietly from the wooden bench and slipped from the room.
“Of all the impertinence,” Sir Wynkyn commented, his voice echoing in the large chamber, reverberating off the bookshelves filled with leather-bound, gilt-edged volumes in Latin and Greek.
Prince Jocko cleared his throat, a subtle warning to mind his words about Brogwin. “Do not think Master Frayney impertinent, tutor. His beloved father, Fordwyn Frayney, had been the highly regarded atilliator to my own beloved father, King Arnotto, from his apprenticeship to his father before him.” Prince Jocko shifted his gaze to the dust motes hovering mid-air in the shafts of sunlight through the windows.
With a cracking of his knuckles, Prince Jocko continued. “The traditional English bow is the short-bow, with a range of no more than 200 yards. The long-bow launches arrows faster than any previous bows. Though a skilled long-bowman can release betwixt ten and twelve arrows per minute, it requires considerable training. The crossbow’s range is 350–400 yards but can only be shot at a rate of two bolts per minute. Its rate of fire is slow and the archer needs protection whilst drawing his bow. And so shelters himself with a tall shield known as a pavise. The crossbow is easy to use, requiring minimal training and little strength to operate. An aging man, child, even a woman could work it. But it shoots too few bolts.”
“I see Prince Jocko has been studying,” was all Sir Aubrey could think to say.
“Legend of Lord Frayney’s skills at making the finest, truest crossbows spread across all of Wagetannia and on into neighboring England and France. ‘Twas a more accurate weapon, with a longer range, and the quarrel which it fired was in all respects more deadly than a simple arrow. Lord Frayney was commissioned to produce crossbows at such a pace his artisans and apprentices couldst not meet the demand. As soon as a dozen were completed, they were whisked away and stored under lock and key. Or so he thought. When one of Lord Frayney’s atilliator’s was found prostrate from exhaustion and nearly trampled by an arriving horse, he went to my father for help.”
Sir Aubrey parted his lips to speak but a raised hand from Prince Jocko kept his silence.
“My father, King Arnotto, knew nothing of the charge to produce such stores of weaponry,” Prince Jocko said softly for effect. “And when the command went out to find these crossbows, the storerooms were found … empty.”
It worked. Sir Aubrey gasped and furrowed his brow. “But who--”
“There are those who have questions and those who have answers,” Prince Jocko said, hoping to sound vague and avoiding pointing fingers of guilt at anyone in particular.
“What, what happened to Lord Frayney?” Sir Aubrey whispered.
“Shot through the heart with one of his own bolts,” Prince Jocko barely spoke the words.
Sir Aubrey slumped back into his chair, swallowed slowly, and looked to Prince Jocko like a man who felt unsafe and was perhaps wondering had he made the right decision to remain.
