Kanchure

One

A brief flicker of light from the shutters of the Bear's Head tavern illuminated his being and arrested his odyssey. He had been walking for an hour through broad thoroughfares and side streets; and now, through a cobbled shambles, of narrow and crooked alleyways. Discoloured thatch littered his path. Heavy drops of rain continued to splatter his threadbare coat, his hair, and his hands, making him huddle beneath their assault.

Stale tobacco and sweat accosted his nostrils as he pushed through the tavern’s doorway, narrowly missing a sailor, lurching into the gale. The tavern was half-empty; no doubt the weather and darkness had conspired to keep all but the foolhardy away. Erik found a stool at a table close to the fire and catching Fat George, the innkeeper's eye, ordered a tankard of ale.

The glare from the hearth lit his soft features and slowly began to revive him, its warmth a welcome antidote to the rain and cold. Unbuttoning his coat, he gazed around the room and saw his old comrade-in-arms, Matthias, sitting alone at the counter. Taking his tankard, Eric walked purposefully over, oblivious to the chatter of the other patrons.

A night to be cursed, Matthias. Matthias turned and nodded slowly in agreement. Worse than some Erik, and better than others. What possessed you to come here this evening?

I have been sent on a mission.

A mission no less. Matthias chuckled. He was fond of Erik, most people who knew him were, but he was not called the Unwise for nothing. Erik continued in a secretive manner. It’s young Kanchure, the prince. His father wants him to report to the palace as soon as possible. As he spoke, Erik's mop of dark wavy hair moved slightly back and forth as if agreeing with his enthusiasm. And, the king has entrusted this mission to you? queried Matthias, surprised. Well, not exactly. I mean the king doesn't know that I know that he wants to see the prince. But one of the queen's chambermaids approached me, to go and tell Prince Kanchure the news. Erik smiled at his report.

Matthias studied his friend's face. Erik, he said softly, brushing a lock of red-grey hair from his brow. Our king is not a man to be trifled with. This chambermaid may have honourable intentions but then again, she may be raising some kind of breeze. Take the advice of an old comrade and ignore her intrigues, for the rage of our king can be terrible indeed. Matthias put a momentary hand on his friend’s shoulder. He then drained his tankard and bidding Erik adieu, buttoned his greatcoat and went back into the night.

Erik somewhat disconcerted by his friend's reaction, took a contemplative sip of ale and walked back to the fire. Why is it that the words of a trusted friend carry so much weight? True, the king had a notorious temper, but equally true was the fact that he generously rewarded those who were of good service to him. What is a life without some risk, Erik asked himself. How much worse off could I be than I am now? A pig- keeper, that's what I am, a simple, ordinary, unimportant pig-keeper. Riotous laughter came from the adjoining tables and turning on his stool, he saw the other men and women enjoying their ale and each other's company. No princes or nobles here, he thought. Only common folk like him; labourers, carters, mongers, washerwomen, humble people.

He turned his face back to the hearth. A wisp of steam curled upwards from the end of his breeches while drops of rain dripped onto the flagstones from beneath his chiselled boots. No! He would finish his tankard and make haste to the city’s South Gate. With some luck, the sentries would recognise him and let him on his way. A mile or two further was the old byre where he could get some rest. Once he had some sleep and bread his spirits would rise again. He couldn't turn back now. Chances like this were rare. Resolved, he downed his tankard and picked up his coat, bidding Fat George, a good night.

The bemused Fates chorused from the gutter as Erik re-entered the sodden alleyway. A surge of thunder breaking in the distance signalled that the storm was rolling east. Onwards he trudged, another lane way and another alley until the words of his friend captured him. He raised his face to the gods, the rain striking it mercilessly. He hesitated for a moment, and then turning slowly, began the long journey back to his hovel. Incessant drops blurred his vision, but whether, from the deluge or his own tears, he could not tell.

Two

Sunlight streamed through the window. All record of the previous night’s storm had gone. A delicious smell of bacon, loaves and coffee wound its way up the stairs. His warm blankets invited Prince Kanchure to postpone his full wakefulness. How good it was to be away from the palace, to stay in this delightful country manor. To have nothing to worry about except how to occupy one’s time; to concentrate on playing music or go riding across the meadows. He heard the servants’ voices as they set to work downstairs. Soon the cook would announce that breakfast was ready and one of the servant girls would bring it to his chamber. He closed his eyes re-supping the ambrosia of his mind.

In this manner, he laid, until a tumult from below prevented his wanderings. A servant was hesitant and questioning, an unseen player was apologetic yet persistent. Some faraway door slammed in protest at their debate. Then nothing, except mantle clock ticking silence. Kanchure studied the ceiling. Had he locked his chamber? Faint staccato steps mounted the marble stairway, their volume and confidence increasing with their approach. Onwards they came, until a pause and a cough, loitered outside his door.

My lord, I have an urgent message from the king.

My Lord Kanchure, are you awake? Kanchure hesitated to answer the man truthfully. However, the king could not be ignored. Better see what he wants.

Enter, said the prince.

The ancient door protested on its hinges. A draught of cold air made Kanchure pull the eiderdown tighter to his chest.

My lord, pardon my intrusion, but His Majesty, instructed me to give you this letter with haste.

Kanchure gazed at the messenger. He was attired in the royal livery of a yellow waistcoat, green jacket, white breeches and powdered wig. This sight of him so early in the morning momentarily stung Kanchure’s eyes.

Let’s have it then, sir, the prince said good-naturedly.

The messenger walked to the side of the bed and with an elaborate bow and flourish handed him the letter. Kanchure swallowed a yawn and began to read.

Prince Kanchure, you are to return to Östburgh at once. There you shall meet your mother and me inside the Great Hall of Nobles, at exactly twelve noon.

Herman IV

P.S. Do not be late boy.

He was perplexed, the Great Hall of Nobles? Unless? No, it couldn’t be. Could it? He read the note again. Actually, it could mean only one thing. His father wanted to honour him in front of all the noble families of the kingdom. Wonderful!

Kanchure leapt out of bed, narrowly missing the messenger and glanced at the clock. It read a quarter to ten. Why, there was barely time to dress and make it to the Great Hall. He began dressing himself hurriedly, the messenger doing his best not to look. Oh, thank you sir, you may leave now and please be kind as to inform my aide to have the barouche ready for our immediate departure.

The messenger left with another bow and flourish and as he did so Kanchure struggled to find his boots. Eventually, he found them splayed under his bed. He sat down on the mattress, taking a moment to take it all in. He was about to receive a personal and public triumph amongst his peers in his own city. His name would no longer be obscure amongst the older burghers and unseen weavers of Östreich’s destiny. His youth would no longer be an obstacle to the inclusiveness of their discourse. Was there no end to the glories before him? Rising from the mattress, the prince congratulated himself on being a remarkable human being, and the beloved son of his father, the king.

Kanchure finished his toilet, pausing to examine his image through the looking glass. Satisfied, he exited the chamber. Two minutes later, he stood on the front porch munching an impromptu breakfast that the housekeeper has thrust into his hand. Oliver, his aide, appeared beside him.

Won’t be long now my lord, the carriage men are almost ready.

How do I look Oliver, am I presentable to the king? Oliver studied his Master’s appearance. Perfectly tied blond hair, in a velvet ribbon, pulled back from Kanchure’s rotund, clean shaven face. His boots shined as though on a military parade and his frock coat was brushed to perfection. Cream coloured breeches held no stains and the whiff of expensive cologne radiated from his white cravat. If Oliver had been completely honest, he would have confided in his charge, that he felt he was a tad overdressed. However, being honest, completely or otherwise, was something Kanchure’s aide had no intention of ever being.

You look radiant my lord, thoroughly presentable, said Oliver.

Excellent! I don’t mind telling you Oliver that I have a feeling today is going to be a day that I recount for the rest of my life.

Three

Mildred was not impressed. It was already past mid-morning and her piglets were hungry, squealing and scratching in the straw. Rousing herself on her immense haunches, she waddled with as much dignity as she could muster to where Erik snored. Giving him a resigned look, she proceeded to lick his face. He moved his head involuntary, and smiling as if in a delightful dream, attempted to turn over on his bed of straw. However, not for nothing was Mildred the matriarch of the pig farm. Lowering herself on her muddied trotters she let a piercing squeal into his ear and then bid a hasty retreat.

Her squeal caused Erik to bang his head against a nearby pitchfork while simultaneously overturning a pail of rainwater with his boot. For a few seconds, he had no idea of his position. Gradually, however, his pale blue eyes began to focus. They took in Mildred‘s brown and white face. It held a mixture of consternation and concern. Mildred, old girl, what are…Oh my gosh, the time! he cried. He leapt to his feet and dusting the straw from his damp clothes, quickly set about feeding the animals. Mildred, satisfied with her morning’s work, waddled back to her resting place.

Erik had just finished feeding the pigs when one of the scullery maids ran excitedly into the sty. Quickly Erik, you are needed in the kitchens. Report to Master Cribbage with all speed, no time to explain! With that, she gulped a mouthful of air and hurried back towards her post. Baffled, Erik grabbed his damp coat and ran after her across the yard.

Master Cribbage was in the kitchens inspecting his staff; shoes, breeches, bonnets, skirts, fingernails and hair, for today was a very important day. He had just begun to inspect the cooking staff when Erik appeared at the door. Ah Erik, said Master Cribbage with a warm smile. Would you be so kind as to wait for me, please? Then, turning to one of his staff he instructed them to seat Erik and provide him with some food. Though important and respected as he was, Master Cribbage had never forgotten his humble origins. He too had started working on the farm and looking at the wretched rags, in which Erik was dressed, surmised that little if anything had changed. Having completed his inspections, he returned.

Thank you for coming, Erik.

Thank you, Master Cribbage.

Erik, I was wondering…would you be willing to do our majesty a service today?

Erik spluttered out a spoonful of soup.

Our Majesty..? You mean the king!

Why yes, Erik, our glorious Majesty, King Herman IV.

Erik began to stammer, I, I…I don’t know what to say, I mean yes, of course, Master Cribbage, I mean…

Splendid Erik! I knew I could rely on you. Here is what I need you to do; I want you to act as a servant today. Just for today, mind you, in the Great Hall of Nobles. You see, unfortunately, two of my usual servants caught a bad chill after last night’s storm and are sick as cushions. Erik’s pale blue eyes looked straight through Master Cribbage into the soul’s private realm of deliverance and hope. The kitchen began to overwhelm him. The great copper pots above the fireplace gleamed with a new intensity, and the tiles on the kitchen floor sparkled as though fashioned from a fine glass. His breathing shortened and his heart constricted. The older man became sensible to the change.

Erik, are you alright? he asked concernedly

Erik’s spirit departed from the kingdom of possibility.

Yes, Master Cribbage, I am fine. It would be an honour sir, a tremendous honour to serve the king and queen and lords and ladies and…

"Good! That settles it then. Now Erik, finish your sustenance and when you are ready, I will escort you to Mister Faustenberg, the head servant. He will show you to the baths, provide you with your servant’s uniform and instruct you on how to behave.

Thank you Master Cribbage, but may I ask you a question sir if it is not too much trouble, I mean…

What is it Erik?

The pig-keeper fidgeted on his stool.

Just that, why me sir?

A benevolent look from his patron.

Why not you Erik?

Four

Carriages crowded the cobbled square in front of the Great Hall of Nobles. Painted dames and gout-ridden lords coalesced beneath its arches. Flasks touched and liquor drained, as men of means concocted the wherewithal to make more money; their wives happy to dally and slander mutual acquaintances. It was a hideous burrow of whores and thieves masquerading as well-mannered society.

Kanchure, however, delighted in the spectacle. He smiled and hallooed from the barouche to the assembled though without receiving even one reciprocating gesture.

His aide, Oliver, conscious of the prince’s position, commenced to supervise the boy’s exit from the coach. He notified the driver to stop and studied his charge. The prince was presentable he thought gloomily. In truth, Oliver did not particularly care. He had grown tired of this immature royal. He motioned Kanchure to ready himself; but not before licking his hands to have the final say on the youth’s already orderly hair. This well rehearsed action was a pet hate of Kanchure’s. The young prince dodged his assailant, leaping out of the barouche and leaving the older man to curse and fumble inside its velvet interior.

Giddy from it all, the prince laughed loudly on the pavement. How wonderful it was to be back in Östburgh. How wonderful it was to be back in this citadel of civility and charm! An infuriated Oliver, recovering from his mishap, petulantly threw a small confectionary at the back of Kanchure’s head, missing his target. Kanchure hadn’t noticed, so engaged, so enraptured was he with the spectacle that surrounded him. Yellow and green bunting, flags, wreaths of flowers, gentlemen and ladies in their affected finery, palace guards in immaculate uniforms, the plain, the beautiful, the conscientious and the shameless, all here, all present, all anticipating some great event.

Chamber music caught the air; a quartet was in the foyer of the Great Hall, their strings bringing a resonance of harmony to the crowd. The young prince slowly became recognised amidst that scrum of privilege. Low bows of ample, alabaster cleavage curtsied before him; while simultaneously presenting the ungainly daughters they had once suckled. Corpulent gentleman-farmers gave wanting cries of hear, hear, between their squeezed farts and houghed, snuff stained phlegm. It was perverse, it was indecorous, it was Östburgh.

Before its time, the tower clock above the Great Hall struck noon. This imperfection galvanised the throng. The king would soon be here. The king, whose cruelty and sense of injustice, could only be bested by that of a petulant schoolboy in complete possession of a small animal or fly.

Kanchure made his way through the hall, walking up the central aisle of black and white tiles. Directly ahead of him laid a platform, capped by a large throne. The throne gleamed with a dull inelegance and was hideously out of proportion to the rest of the fittings in the building. The prince continued his approach and as he did so he noticed his three older brothers: Alfewd, Pontius and Mixtar seated to the right of the monstrosity. Another seat lay in wait for him though this curiously, was situated on its left.

He took his seat. Was it his imagination or were his brothers simpering at him? That they despised him, he already knew. Yet, this was something else. Something hid. Something mean.

Kanchure was about to respond when the music ceased abruptly. All murmuring in the Great Hall wilted and died. Forthchok, the Lord Chancellor had entered the building. The chancellor eyed those gathered, before stomping his ceremonial staff three times. He announced the arrival of the king, in a high- pitched voice incompatible with his frame. The hall rose as one, turned towards their expected sovereign and bowed.

His Majesty entered the hall and unconcernedly proceeded towards the platform. Two pageboys walked behind him carrying his robes of state. No rush, no hurry, just the composure of an almost, absolute monarch. Thus, with an absence of effort, King Herman IV seated himself on his throne.

Five

Shoes with buckles! Erik stood gazing at his feet in amazement. He was being preened in front of a full-length looking glass. Mister Faustenberg gazed through his quizzing glass.

Fabulous, Erik, just fabulous.

Thank you, Mister Faustenberg, sir.

I just love the shoes, real calf leather, Erik, did you know that?

No Mister Faustenberg, sir.

And the pantaloons such a perfect length for you and tight in all the right places, what?

Yes, Mister Faustenberg.

Oh, call me Cyril, Erik, everybody else does; okay poppet?

Yes, Cyril sir, I mean yes, Cyril. With that Mister Faustenberg, that is Cyril, sauntered away to another servant in need of his attention.

The perfecting hands continued their work with alacrity. Brushes and combs teased Erik’s hair while nimble fingers adjusted his collar and cravat. A wad of damp cloth expertly excavated his ears and snot encrusted nostrils. A dervish barber eradicated his whiskers. This enterprise by his well-meaning assailants astonished the pig-keeper. Each stroke of the combs and glide of the razor excited his imagination, and the determined tugging on the hem of his jacket relayed a hidden patois of peril and opportunity, that only one as forlorn as he could decipher. Erik began to passionately wish that he was in the company of his porcine friend, sharing a flask of ale. For the muck and straw of that miserable address did more than gift him acceptance and understanding; it also gave him sanctuary.

He heard his name being called. Master Cribbage was searching for him. Erik eyed his own reflection. It refused to bestow his lined face with any blessing. His perspiring hands sought the mirror’s edges, clasping them as one would their personal saviour. The anxiety he felt caused an oily thumbprint to stain the polished glass. His name was being called again. It was time. Unresolved, he grappled with his uncertainty and let the casing go.

Master Cribbage, sir!

Ah, Erik, I want you to come with me, I have an important task for you to perform. Erik nodded and followed his benefactor through the swarm until they reached a door in the opposite wall. Master Cribbage removed a large brass key from his pocket and opened the lock. He ushered the pig-keeper inside and closed the door; diluting the exterior cacophony to a murmur. Another servant was waiting within.

Erik, I would like you to meet Johann. Johann, this is Erik. The two men acknowledged each other.

Now, Erik, continued Master Cribbage. Johann, here, will guide you. I have chosen both of you to have the honour of serving the king this afternoon. Your task will be to assist Johann in bringing some refreshments to him. Johann will carry some water and you Erik shall carry some fruit. Do you have any questions? Erik couldn’t think of any. Good, I will leave you in Johann’s care then. Best of luck gentlemen and thank you, Master Cribbage went back outside. Johann made sure he was completely gone before speaking to Erik.

Be careful today, old son.

I’m sorry? said Erik.

Be careful. I’ve served the king before, you see, and trust me when I tell you, that he can be a right bastard; depending on his mood, of course. Erik couldn’t speak. He had never before heard anyone, say anything, detrimental to the king. Johann eyed his new partner. Take it easy lad; swallow your surprise and any subsequent outrage. I have been working in the palace for more than thirty years. The man is quite frankly a scourge, a pox and a pus pile upon the earth. No words were able to form in Erik’s mouth. His astonishment was absolute. Johann took his underling by the sleeve.

For this task, you just need some guile and heart. Look, see that other door over there? Well, all we have to do is go through there, down a small passageway, collect the refreshments and wait our cue. Erik nodded his head to show that he understood. Johann meanwhile, continued his discourse.

"And, I don’t mind telling you son, but do