Chapter 2

Magical Defense

The sun’s rays were just peaking over the horizon as Timothy placed the last of the eggs in the second wicker basket. Even at this early hour he had already searched the entire chicken coop having plucked every single egg he could find from the hens’ roosts, on explicit directions from the baker. Today the baker was making, in addition to the requisite breads, rolls and pastries, his famous custards for the King’s banquet this evening. Timothy was very careful not to break any of the precious eggs. Michael the baker who had always been nicer to him than most, would be angry with him if he did anything other than exactly what he had stipulated. Michael’s sharp tongue could lacerate a kitchen boy to ribbons and reduce him to tears if said boy deviated from the baker’s explicit instructions. Michael was now a grizzled old man with only one leg and one eye though long ago he had been a Sergeant Major in the elite Royal Guards and was recognized as a hero before he had been forced to retire due to his injuries.

The Royal Guards had a dual mandate. The first and most important was to protect the royal family, and most particularly the King, against any and all harm. The second, which at times was very nearly as crucial, was to fight as soldiers in protection of the realm. Only the best of the best soldiers were ever selected to be Royal Guards who had earned their elite status in blood and victories time and time again. Michael had fought with distinction in many important battles and Timothy loved to listen to his stories from the days when he served as a Royal Guard safeguarding the borders of Sutherland from marauders and would-be invaders. And on rare instances he would show the boy his medals earned for heroism and valor in battle.

Timothy carefully lifted the heavy baskets and exited the coop, judiciously latching the wire and wooden door so none of the chickens could escape their confinement. To his horror, his nemesis, Harpen, the Heir to the Duchy of Fentan, was waiting for him with a group of his cronies from other Noble bloodlines. Harpen, with glee and malice, turned to his gang of boys and bragged, “I told you we would find him here. The kitchen baker needs lots of eggs to bake breads and pastries for the feast tonight.” He turned to Timothy and taunted the small boy, “What is wrong orphan scum? Are you not glad to see your old friends? I have not been able to find you anywhere within the royal castle. Have you been hiding from me, kitchen scullery?”

With that last sneer, Harpen stepped up to Timothy and kicked one of the baskets as hard as he could knowing that the loss of the eggs would be blamed on the kitchen boy. Timothy held on tight to the handle to save the eggs, but still the substantial impact shook him brutally and wrenched his shoulder. He could have dropped the baskets and attempted to flee, but he had been charged by Michael with the important task of gathering eggs and would not play the coward to avoid a beating while doing his job. He had more integrity than that. In that instant, Timothy made his ill-fated decision. As Harpen pulled his leg back to kick Timothy with as ferocious a blow as his compact adolescent frame could muster, Timothy gathered the white force of the stars and magically shifted himself and the eggs out of harm’s way.

Harpen’s band of lesser Noble’s offspring gawked at Timothy’s incredible and unexpected feat of magic. Harpen, although blessed with a prominent aristocratic bloodline was not endowed with an overabundance of intelligence. His startled reaction was, “Wah. What happened?”

Harpen was now enormously angered by his prey’s having the audacity to elude his assault and make him look the fool in front of his pals. The Fentan Heir charged Timothy like a deranged bull. Timothy lowered the broken basket to the ground, gathered the red earth force into himself, just as the Senior Wizard had instructed him to do, and drove his fist forward at his attacker’s jaw. Timothy’s little fist did not actually make direct contact with Harpen, but the red force did and Harpen was driven back so hard he tumbled through the air, head over heels, to fall some ten yards from where he had initiated his violent onslaught. Harpen lay there bleeding and unconscious.

Timothy walked over to the prostrate bully and was appalled by what he had done. Yet he took comfort in not having broken Ser Trillion’s strict rule. He had only done what he had been taught to do to defend himself. Still, he was extremely displeased at committing an act of aggression, even against a sadistic tormenter like Harpen.

Timothy turned to the assembled group of Harpen’s horrified followers and advised them, “Go get the Royal Healer, Harpen needs help.” When they did not respond, he raised his voice and commanded, “Go. Go now.” They reacted like startled rabbits and took off as fast as their juvenile legs could carry them. One got his foot tangled up and stumbled to the ground, but quickly scrambled up and followed his compatriots at the run. Timothy hoped the Royal Healer could reach Harpen in time to treat his injuries. The chicken coop was necessarily located a fair distance from the castle proper to avoid having the Noble noses offended by the chickens’ odorous droppings. The Royal Healer would have to come quickly and treat Harpen’s injuries rapidly or Fentan’s Heir might succumb to his injuries. Injuries inflicted by a common kitchen servant.

Timothy knew he was in grave trouble, but Michael needed his eggs. So, he emptied the broken basket of all the broken shells, dipped water from the trough to wash off the eggs that were still whole or only slightly cracked, repaired the basket as best he could and returned to the kitchen. His shoulder hurt terribly, but he ignored the pain. The distressing pain in his heart of having committed an act of violence was much worse and that he could not ignore.

Timothy was a sensitive, sincere youth who tried his best to be kind and respectful. He hated violence and was dismayed at what Harpen had forced him to do. Though he had acted in self-defense, the dreadful results of his magical resistance weighed heavily on his soul. He knew as sure as the sun rose in the east that there would be severe repercussions from Harpen’s mother, the Duchess of Fentan.

When Timothy placed the two baskets beside Michael’s baking table he received a sharp look from the old man’s single unwavering eye. The baker accusingly asserted, “I thought there would be more eggs. I need more eggs to create my custards and do what is needful for the King’s banquet. How am I to prepare everything with only a basket and a half of eggs?”

Timothy, not wanting anyone else to share in his crime, appropriate as it may have been, remained mute, refusing to reply.

Michael had but one eye, but his one was more observant than most people with two good eyes. He required of Timothy, “What is wrong with your shoulder, boy?” Quick as an adder, he snapped out his hand and squeezed the shoulder that Timothy was favoring. The young boy let out a yelp but refused to comment or provide an explanation. “What happened, child, did that sadistic bully Harpen get at you again?”

Timothy, despite his pain, met Michael’s piercing stare with his own quiet countenance and said nothing.

“Boy, one of these days I am going to have to teach you how to fight. Go to the hearth, the meat needs turning.”

Timothy returned to the spit with no word or complaint, certain that the Duchess of Fentan would exact a terminal price for the damage he had done to her son and Heir.