The King Is In Town

The king was in town.

Peter had correctly thought that the king’s would bring with him glory and splendour, a mighty army, and a fearsome, awe-inspiring presence that commanded homage. He had naively misunderstood that the king bringing an entourage of soldiers meant that greedy, armed, untouchable men would be prowling the streets, demanding whatever they pleased, and unkind towards resistance.

Peter thought back to the conversation he had had with Tally, the farmer’s wife, three days hence. She had correctly predicted that they would plow through the streets, drinking the alekeeper dry and paying for nothing, except perhaps a tip for pleasing female company. Some would stay in the tavern, all but stopping the other revenue-generating activities for all the space and service they would need. They wouldn’t all fit, of course, and would soon roam through the streets, banging on house doors demanding the best rooms for lodging. They were dirty, loud, and vulgar, and many a missus might be taking her children to the chicken coop to sleep—to protect their ears, and to keep her own skirts closed.

Peter hadn’t thought of any of this, but at the time. The farmer’s wife was pretty, and he liked the way her dark brown curls bounced against her cheeks when she shook her head. He wished she had a daughter, because he was convinced he would marry her, but she only had three sons, much younger than Peter himself. He was happy that they would at least have help in the fields.

As the third day dawned with the king’s men in town, Peter was especially grateful they lived a little outside of the centre of town. He had always liked it, as it meant he would have lots of fields to walk through and explore, but his mother often complained it was bad for business. Not as many farmers as townsfolk needed a laundress. But right now, she was not complaining. They were far from the tavern and brothel, and other than a couple of soldiers poking around looking for edible supplies, they had for the most part been left alone.

Peter knew the farmers themselves were in more danger. No doubt their meat cupboards had been raided more than they could spare, and if the soldiers were particularly cruel, they would have shot up a couple of cattle and demanded the meat be butchered. A good egg hen might have been beheaded and roasted for its plump breast meat, too.

He got up and straightened his sheets. No good clean if it’s all crumpled, Petey-boy, his mother had often said. We gotta keep our dignity somewhere, you and me.

He went downstairs to find his mother scrubbing a grey bedsheet in a bucket of soapy water with the force she always used when she was stressed. He watched for a moment. Ludmilla normally had a calm and even temperament. She could even be pretty and sweet when she wanted to be. Peter had wondered increasingly why she hadn’t gotten married again. Surely, at twenty-five with a successful business and a half-grown son, she could have more than enough suitors. He dismissed the thought from his mind.

“Mama?” he said. She looked at him, and Peter realized she hadn’t slept the night before. Perhaps she was thinking more of the king’s men would come knocking if they stayed long enough to drain the supplies in the centre of town.

Just then, there was a loud bang on the door. At first, Peter and his mother did nothing. Then, there was second bang, even louder this time, and the sound of men’s voices. “Open up!” said a gruff, angry voice. “King’s men!”

Ludmilla masked her face with calm confidence. She dried her hands on her apron. “All right, all right,” she said with more confidence than he was sure she felt. “I’m coming. No need to break the door down.”

Peter watched from the top of the stairs, almost confident he was out of view. She opened up for the men. The man in front, presumably the one who had spoken through the door, appraised her with a slimy smile that Peter didn’t like at all. He had dark hair like the king’s, but his was greasy and shorter, and he had big black eyebrows that were almost as thick as his thin lips. The other men looked around at the inside of the laundry shop. “Nothin’ much here. We can check the kitchen, but I don’t think we’re going to find much.”

“No?” said the man with the eyebrows. “You sure about that?” He flicked his gaze in the direction of Peter and then seemed to ignore him. “I think we’ve found plenty right here.”

“General, we might go back. Horn’s about to blow.”

The general shoved Peter’s mother up against the wall and held her there with his forearm. “Not until I get a little—” Peter went for him, but one of the other soldiers was on him in a flash, pinning him with his face against the wall. “Miller!” he called out from his pose holding Peter. “Check the kitchen. Grab what you can.”

Peter could not see anything, but he heard his mother struggling. She tried to scream and then the sound was muffled. “A-a-AH!” said an angry man’s voice. “The bitch bit me!” The struggle continued audibly.

Peter heard another man’s voice from the kitchen doorway, presumably the man called Miller. “Nothing here, General.” His one completely disregarded the sight of two pinned victims against their own shop walls.

“Be—still! Bitch—you will obey—” The sound of the general’s efforts and Ludmilla’s resistance was interrupted by the sound of a great horn. The general seemed to let out an exasperated growl, and the man holding Peter let him go. Peter whipped around to see his mother. She was smoothing her skirts. She looked shaken but otherwise unharmed. Peter’s neck and jaw hurt from being pinned at an odd angle upwards, but he hardly felt it. He made a silent vow to go to the church and thank the saints that things hadn’t gotten much worse.

Suddenly, in a flash of inspiration, the man with the big, black eyebrows lunged for Peter’s mother again, once again pinning her between his forearm and the wall. Peter went to reach for her, but the unnamed man held him back with a gesture of his hands. The general waved his injured hand in Ludmilla’s face.

Peter saw something fall from the man’s garments onto his mother’s skirt, temporarily suspended, pinned between the two sets of clothes. “One day, I’ll getcha, bitch. If I ever see y’again, I’ll getcha back for this.” He let her go.

The object fell, but just as it hit the floor, the horn went off again, and Ludmilla’s skirts covered it up. Peter didn’t think she’d seen it at all. The general turned towards the door. “Let’s go, men!” he commanded weakly.

The other man who seemed to be really in charge was unmoved. He stood in the doorway, looking back at Peter and his mother. “Do pay your respects to the king,” he said. He turned out of the shop. “Failure to appear will require that you be taken with us for judgement in the next large town.”

Peter watched Ludmilla’s face drain and she straightened her skirts. She tried to smile confidently at him, but Peter could see the lingering fear in her eyes. Peter went to her and grasped both of her shoulders, looking deep into her grey eyes and asking if she was all right. Her eyes replied wearily in the affirmative.

His attention went to the object that had dropped from the man’s garments to the floor. Gently, he lifted the hem of his mother’s skirts and moved them out of the way. He picked it up. It was a small box, wrapped in brown paper. Before he could open it and investigate, the horn blew again. He put the box in his pocket and looked at his mother. She nodded, and they headed to the road to honour the king as he departed.