It was difficult to willingly give up Selma’s companionship and the inherent security that came with being known but Arthur had to leave. He knew the kind of risk he was exposing her to and despite reassurances, he could see the relief in her shoulders and the lines around her mouth when he announced he’d be leaving soon.
He unpacked his satchel, threw away the debris that had gathered at the bottom. He cleaned and aired it before adding anything he would need for the next part of the journey. Soon turned out to be a week.
Selma and Arthur took an hour to say goodbye to each other, still loathe to part even though they knew it was for the best. And then he was on his way. This time though, he had a proper destination in mind. He was on his way to Hort’s house, a friend of a friend of a cousin who owed Selma a favour. He hadn’t tried to follow that list of lies too closely. He was grateful she would do this for him and that was enough.
It took him two days to arrive at Hort’s. The man wanted nothing to do with Arthur and made it abundantly clear he was only doing this as a favour. Normally, he would have left immediately after receiving such a dismal reception but Selma had promised Hort was harmless so he chose to trust her.
He settled into the room, after his offer to help with the evening meal was rejected and opened his papers. He began to write.
*
The thing I remember most about him are his laughs. He was one of the few kings I knew who could laugh heartily. He loved stories, of course, and ones that talked about his prowess were his favourite kind.
He knew I used to collect stories. At the time, isolated in so many ways, away from what was normal, Forbearn still not feeling like home, stories were my way of finding something that belonged to me. No one could take them away from me and I used to carry a notebook – which he had gifted to me of course, he had said, “So you can squirrel away whatever you want, to your heart’s content” – and I would pen down whatever I would hear. The courtiers made fun of me but by then I had come to a realization that they would do that irrespective. Their constant jibes lost all spur after that realization.
But the folks loved it. Some would go out of their way to contribute to my growing collection of stories.
Like the audience I had now, like Miss Rosina, he was the first to demand, “Tell me a story from that notebook of yours.” He was wildly proud he had found a way to spoil me. He didn’t even pay as much attention to his queen, even though she had given him an heir in their first try. He did dote on Janah but Janah wasn’t old enough then to be of use to Reifire. So though he would play with him, every day before it was time for Janah to retire to bed, it was me he spent most of his free time with.
Every demand of a story from him I would fulfil. I would find him a new story every time and sometimes he would give me the history behind a story, or he would correct the stories because they didn’t end the way he remembered. On rare occasions, he would tell me a story and I would note it down. Mostly the stories he told me were embarrassing because he would wax poetic about my eyes or my hands or the way my hair curled.
I would hush him and then turn them so they would suit the queen. It became a norm for us. Me sending poems to his queen on his behalf and she tolerating him in her bed because of them. I don’t know if she ever caught on who those poems were originally written for. Sometimes I hoped she did and sometimes I hoped she didn’t. I was deliriously happy though. That I do remember.
*
Arthur’s musings were interrupted when Hort called him for dinner and he was glad. The history he was trying to write was in no way or form shaping up to be the political background to Reifire’s reign he had wanted them to be. Where was the wisdom in sharing about love poems he couldn’t fathom. How could Janah possibly use any of this he didn’t even try to think. It almost felt like he was writing a love letter to Reifire.
He shook himself and joined Hort and his son on the table. His wife was in the room he presumed. That’s when it struck him that Hort was being uncharacteristically hostile. Did he think Arthur would do something to his family?
“So son what do you do eh?”
The boy looked at his father. Getting a nod, his face burst into a grin. “Me sir me is learning how to look after horses. I love horses. And me thinks they love me back. Sir.”
“I had a horse,” he said, “lovely creatures horses. Intelligent and loyal if they choose to give you their friendship.”
The boy nodded. And since no rebuke was forthcoming, he launched into a tale of horses and manure and mucking out stables and taking care of the animals.
Arthur smiled from time to time but only listened. The boy would clearly become a good stablemaster one day. He hoped he did.
After dinner, when this time he offered to clean the utensils, Hort accepted gruffly. He even invited Arthur to sit with him outside, offering him a smoke and lighting it up for him.
He was looking at the stars when he said, “I don’t mean to be rude but Selma didn’t mention we were supposed to house the infamous Arthur Uriel Banes.”
Arthur started, feeling wrong-footed.
Hort didn’t let him speak. “Your picture is all over town. The king is searching high and low for you and if it becomes known we…”
He raised his hand. “I understand. I will leave tomorrow at dawn.”
They shook hands and Hort left him outside with his thoughts. He had the irrational need to surrender but then took a breath to calm himself. Tomorrow. He’d let the road decide where he’d go from here.
This is Chapter 21 of 26 of The Travelling Librarian series. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z.
Psst: I also have 2 ebooks on Kindle – and if you’re on Kindle Unlimited, they’re free!
- Read The Gunslinger here.
- Read 23 Letters of Love here.
tales of Suchita 
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