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“Sorry to disturb you, Master.”
Nicolo waved the apology off. “Is his Highness alright?” I could hear the genuine concern in his voice.
“He’s alright…” the bodyguard began, tentatively.
“But?”
“He may have drunk a little much…”
“So? Hardly the first time. Bring him back from wherever he is and see to it that he’s put into bed.”
“He refuses to leave the tavern, sir.”
Nicolo sighed. “Again?”
“Aye. Apologies, Master.”
“Where is he?”
“The King’s Arms, Master.”
“In Pyecook?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Bloody hell.”
Nicolo strode across the room to pick up his shirt, denying me the sight of his chest and bulging arms. “Well, old Roth’s a good sort, he won’t say anything.” He said the words to himself.
As Nicolo sat down to pull on his boots, I began to climb down the wall. I knew the tavern and I had a slightly more difficult journey ahead of me than he did.
***
The King’s Arms had once been a separate building in the village of Pyecook, one of those closest to the Great Castle. Most of the wooden buildings had been torn down when the Castle expanded to include Pyecook and had been replaced by stone, but the Tavern had already been part masonry and, thus, was incorporated into the growing mass of Woodfall Gath. Changes throughout the centuries had tugged it this way and that as houses rose and fell and its surroundings altered, but the basic body of the King’s Arms remained, with only a bulging wall here and an askew joist there to reveal what it had been through.
I’d run through the backstreets of the area still known as Pyecook, climbed the wall of the tavern (careful to stay out of sight of the bodyguard stationed on the door) and found my way into the tavern’s dusty attic. The King’s Arms was a regular stop for Balduin and Nicolo, so I knew the best places to hide. The old board ceiling of the bar afforded many gaps through which I could squint.
It didn’t take long to find the prince. He was slumped over a table by the back door, a bodyguard standing vigilant over him. He was apparently still conscious as he periodically reached out for his tankard and poured more ale down his throat, managing to do so without raising his head, as only a skilled drinker can.
“Where is he?”
My attention shifted to the main door as Nicolo entered and seeing the prince immediately, crossed to his friend.
Nicolo leaned down and gave Balduin a shake. “Your Highness? It’s time to go.”
Balduin gave a drunken shrug and a grunt.
“Your Highness?”
This time, Balduin lashed out viciously. “How dare you lay (burp) hands on your prince! I shall have (hiccup) you horsewhipped for your (burp) blatant disregard!” It was at that moment that the prince might have farted, but I wasn’t entirely sure.
This was the bodyguard’s problem: their job was to make sure no harm was to befall Prince Balduin (which didn’t include self-inflicted harm to his own liver). They certainly didn’t have the authority to take him home if he didn’t want to go. Nor did Nicolo, but he was the prince’s friend.
Sitting down beside the prince, Nicolo leaned close so the bodyguards couldn’t hear him. “Damn it Balduin, you drunken ass, get on your feet and let Roth close up for the night.”
Balduin looked blearily up. “Nicolo?”
“Aye, it’s me.”
