Books by Ian Rogers
Books by Ian Rogers
By Ian Rogers
A small lamp on the table gave a feeble light. They shook out their cloaks and hung them on pegs by the door. The Prince took off his under-jacket and wet boots.
“Sit by the fire,” the man said, showing him a chair. He threw some sticks and a log onto the red embers that glowed in the hearth and the fire soon flamed into life. “Warm and dry yourself and I will get us some food.” He put a small table in front of the fire and another simple chair on the other side. A simple meal of brown bread and butter, cheese, onions, herbs and a boiled egg each was laid and they ate, facing each other across the table.
“I’m sorry I’ve only water to offer you,” the man said.
“I’m grateful for everything, including water,” answered the Prince, “but I have some spiced cordial from my good mother in my saddle bags. Perhaps you’d like a hot, spiced drink?” They spoke of simple things - the weather, the cost of food - over the meal. Courtesy demanded serious issues be left ’til afterwards but tension mounted as the critical moment approached. Finally it arrived.
The old man placed his empty beaker on the table and sat straighter in his chair. “Tell me,” he said, “How did you come to my lonely place at such an hour? Are you lost? There’s nothing beyond my hut, not even a track.”
“I’m not lost, father. They directed me well at the village. It’s you I’ve come to see.”
“Me?” said the old man uneasily.
“Yes,” said the Prince. “I am Prince Harry of Bowledovia …”
The old man leapt up in surprise, knocking over his chair with a crash. He swept a courtly bow and stammered: “A thousand pardons, your Highness. I had no idea…”
“Please, father,” interrupted the Prince, “sit down. No offence was given by your hospitality - quite the reverse.” He picked up the chair and encouraged the old man to sit down again. He tried to explain his quest in a kind and gentle way.
“My father, the King, sent me,” he said. “I was asked to find his friend, John Weaverson, the ex-Alcaldé of Parcival. I think I’ve found him. I think you are John Weaverson, and I am commanded to order your attendance on his majesty.”
There was a moment’s silence while a series of expressions - slyness, doubt, fear, resignation - flickered across John’s face, finally settling into grim determination.
“Yes, your Highness; I am John Weaverson, former Alcaldé of Parcival. I am yours to command.”
“Well, I’m glad I’ve found you at last,” said the Prince, relieved. “It’s been quite an ordeal! Do sit down and relax - I’m still your guest in your house and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be in here and not out there.” He nodded towards the door and the freezing night outside. “Let’s call this an unofficial royal visit, shall we? Then we can do without all the formalities. As for my next command, we’d better get some sleep. I really am exhausted but I must take you back to see the King as soon as possible, since that is his command to me. If possible, we’ll start first thing tomorrow.”
The horse was much refreshed after a good night in a warm stable with plenty of hay to eat. This was just as well as it was almost as hard to get out of the valley as it had been to get in. The snow was too deep for humans to walk through so John and the Prince rode the horse, one behind the other, as far as the village. There Prince Hal bought another horse and paid a trustworthy man to care for John’s animals. Taking turns to lead and break through the snow the two men, one buoyed up by his success, the other anxious about his fate, started the difficult journey down the mountain to the lowlands.
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