Post by ladymoondancer on Jul 11, 2009 20:58:32 GMT -5
Well, I am not sure where this story bubbled up from or where it is going. I was thinking about lost heirs, and here we are. The title is a terrible, terrible pun and may be changed in the future. 
~*~
The farmer didn’t say anything, just stared, and the king found himself oddly aware of the hat clutched in those rough, brown hands that scrunched it into a crumpled mass one minute and straightened it the next. The open court was unbearably boring, but it had been a popular introduction in the reign of his father, something to calm turbulent times. Oh yes, the king cares about your plight. Any man can take his case before the king. Of course, so many people wanted him to hear their cases that there was a waiting list of several months--this despite the fact that most people finally got impatient and went to a local magistrate to have their case heard. Still, anyone who could bear the wait had the right. It made people feel good. Secure. And when the people felt secure, the king was secure.
That was the idea, at least. Still, Randall got no pleasure from sitting on an achingly straightbacked throne with too small of a seat while peasants stared at him as though he was some kind of bizarre beast in a zoo. All the same, he prefered them to merchants, who stared at him with a thoughtful, considering look that made him uncomfortable, like they were . . . not plotting, exactly, but not thinking the kind of thoughts one should think in front of him, either. He WAS the king, after all.
He brought himself out of his reverie. The farmer still hadn't said anything. Obviously prompting would be necessary. He gave the bailiff by the bench a meaningful look.
"COME NOW, GOODMAN . . ." The bailiff consulted a list. "GOODMAN JERRINS! THE KING'S TIME IS PRECIOUS!"
Only years of court training prevented King Randall from groaning out loud. He'd wanted the old man encouraged, not frightened. The undulations of the weathered brown hat became more anxious and dramatic in the farmer's hands. He kept his head down and mumbled something, shooting an anxious look towards his wife, seated (or rather standing) in the crowded gallery.
"WHAT WAS THAT?" the bailiff bellowed.
"founnachil," the old man whispered huskily.
"Please speak up," King Randall interceded quickly before the bailiff could do his foghorn impression again.
"Twas my wife, in truth." The man stared anxiously at the throne, brow furrowed.
"What about your wife?" asked the king with a sinking heart. Domestic disputes always made for the worst cases, and whichever party lost always shot him glares that suggested a peasant revolt was imminent, even if it was only a revolt of one.
"She foun' it," the man said.
"She found something?"
"Yar."
"Something valuable?"
The goodman shifted from foot to foot again. "Yar."
"Was it on your property?"
"That it was."
"Has anyone challenged you for ownership?"
"No . . ." The old man's eyes distractedly flitted to the gallery again.
Oh good, an easy case. "Then you are now the rightful and legal owners of said object. Thus does the crown judge." He whacked his gavel, the only part of the proceedings he truly enjoyed. "Next!"
There was a brief moment of silence while the bailiff drew a massive breath and into this silence the old man spoke suddenly. "Don't want it."
"WHAT?" the bailiff asked, his tone not shocked but merely loud. The king began to suspect that he was deaf.
"If you don't want it, why don't you give it to someone else?" Peasants, the king thought, no logic. "Give it to a friend or neighbor or try to find the--" He almost said "rightful owner" but caught himself just in time; he had proclaimed the old man to be the rightful owner in front of everyone and his word was law. "--the person who originally lost it," he said instead. And stop bothering me about it, he added mentally. "Do you have any idea who lost it?"
"That we do." A farmwife marched out of the gallery to the shocked and delightedly murmurs of the crowd, pulling a child in a hooded cloak behind her. She fixed the king with a steely gaze. "It's yours, Your Majesty," she said, pulling off the child's cloak to reveal a sheet of blonde hair. A dirty sheet. The kind of sheet that hadn’t been laundered all year.
The king kept his face neutral. People were continually bringing his “lost heir” forward. His lost daughter had been introduced to him as a pig-keeper, scullery maid, farm help, and, on more than one occasion, a boy. One particularly insistent old woman had accounted for this jarring fact by claiming it was a miracle from God. The king had refrained from having her hung because he didn’t want to deal with another orphan. God knew they had enough on their hands . . . All too often their “guardians” abandoned” them on the steps of the castle as soon as it became clear that their adoptive child wouldn’t be leading them to a life of riches and luxury.
The children themselves were as varied as their guardians . . . some stumbling and stuttering when he asked them questions, some coached to be as smooth as butter, and the youngest solemnly picking boogers. This child looked to be nine or ten and no attempt had been made to clean her up. Dirt plastered her face, her dress was a tattered brown rag, and her hair was caught in greasy, tangled snarls. Her expression was vacant, staring at something a long ways away. The king suspected she was “simple.”
He looked at the farmwife in distaste. “Where are you from?”
“Brough, Your Majesty.” She stared right back at him.
“Mmm. And how did the alleged princess get from here to Brough?”
“How should we know? We only found her!”
“In a field,” the old man said, causing both the king and the goodwife to start. “She was standin’ in my field, just lookin’ at me. Like she was waitin’ for me.”
~*~
The farmer didn’t say anything, just stared, and the king found himself oddly aware of the hat clutched in those rough, brown hands that scrunched it into a crumpled mass one minute and straightened it the next. The open court was unbearably boring, but it had been a popular introduction in the reign of his father, something to calm turbulent times. Oh yes, the king cares about your plight. Any man can take his case before the king. Of course, so many people wanted him to hear their cases that there was a waiting list of several months--this despite the fact that most people finally got impatient and went to a local magistrate to have their case heard. Still, anyone who could bear the wait had the right. It made people feel good. Secure. And when the people felt secure, the king was secure.
That was the idea, at least. Still, Randall got no pleasure from sitting on an achingly straightbacked throne with too small of a seat while peasants stared at him as though he was some kind of bizarre beast in a zoo. All the same, he prefered them to merchants, who stared at him with a thoughtful, considering look that made him uncomfortable, like they were . . . not plotting, exactly, but not thinking the kind of thoughts one should think in front of him, either. He WAS the king, after all.
He brought himself out of his reverie. The farmer still hadn't said anything. Obviously prompting would be necessary. He gave the bailiff by the bench a meaningful look.
"COME NOW, GOODMAN . . ." The bailiff consulted a list. "GOODMAN JERRINS! THE KING'S TIME IS PRECIOUS!"
Only years of court training prevented King Randall from groaning out loud. He'd wanted the old man encouraged, not frightened. The undulations of the weathered brown hat became more anxious and dramatic in the farmer's hands. He kept his head down and mumbled something, shooting an anxious look towards his wife, seated (or rather standing) in the crowded gallery.
"WHAT WAS THAT?" the bailiff bellowed.
"founnachil," the old man whispered huskily.
"Please speak up," King Randall interceded quickly before the bailiff could do his foghorn impression again.
"Twas my wife, in truth." The man stared anxiously at the throne, brow furrowed.
"What about your wife?" asked the king with a sinking heart. Domestic disputes always made for the worst cases, and whichever party lost always shot him glares that suggested a peasant revolt was imminent, even if it was only a revolt of one.
"She foun' it," the man said.
"She found something?"
"Yar."
"Something valuable?"
The goodman shifted from foot to foot again. "Yar."
"Was it on your property?"
"That it was."
"Has anyone challenged you for ownership?"
"No . . ." The old man's eyes distractedly flitted to the gallery again.
Oh good, an easy case. "Then you are now the rightful and legal owners of said object. Thus does the crown judge." He whacked his gavel, the only part of the proceedings he truly enjoyed. "Next!"
There was a brief moment of silence while the bailiff drew a massive breath and into this silence the old man spoke suddenly. "Don't want it."
"WHAT?" the bailiff asked, his tone not shocked but merely loud. The king began to suspect that he was deaf.
"If you don't want it, why don't you give it to someone else?" Peasants, the king thought, no logic. "Give it to a friend or neighbor or try to find the--" He almost said "rightful owner" but caught himself just in time; he had proclaimed the old man to be the rightful owner in front of everyone and his word was law. "--the person who originally lost it," he said instead. And stop bothering me about it, he added mentally. "Do you have any idea who lost it?"
"That we do." A farmwife marched out of the gallery to the shocked and delightedly murmurs of the crowd, pulling a child in a hooded cloak behind her. She fixed the king with a steely gaze. "It's yours, Your Majesty," she said, pulling off the child's cloak to reveal a sheet of blonde hair. A dirty sheet. The kind of sheet that hadn’t been laundered all year.
The king kept his face neutral. People were continually bringing his “lost heir” forward. His lost daughter had been introduced to him as a pig-keeper, scullery maid, farm help, and, on more than one occasion, a boy. One particularly insistent old woman had accounted for this jarring fact by claiming it was a miracle from God. The king had refrained from having her hung because he didn’t want to deal with another orphan. God knew they had enough on their hands . . . All too often their “guardians” abandoned” them on the steps of the castle as soon as it became clear that their adoptive child wouldn’t be leading them to a life of riches and luxury.
The children themselves were as varied as their guardians . . . some stumbling and stuttering when he asked them questions, some coached to be as smooth as butter, and the youngest solemnly picking boogers. This child looked to be nine or ten and no attempt had been made to clean her up. Dirt plastered her face, her dress was a tattered brown rag, and her hair was caught in greasy, tangled snarls. Her expression was vacant, staring at something a long ways away. The king suspected she was “simple.”
He looked at the farmwife in distaste. “Where are you from?”
“Brough, Your Majesty.” She stared right back at him.
“Mmm. And how did the alleged princess get from here to Brough?”
“How should we know? We only found her!”
“In a field,” the old man said, causing both the king and the goodwife to start. “She was standin’ in my field, just lookin’ at me. Like she was waitin’ for me.”
