“Good noon. I’ve had some trouble this morning. I deeply apologize for my tardiness,” Montague said, catching his breath. The officers, strangers to him, remained silent and stared blankly. “Sully, has he gone home?”
The king had specifically instructed Montague to give the herbs to Sully and only Sully during unscheduled deliveries. He peered through the lines of light between the wooden trunks of the gate, hoping to glimpse another shadow. But there was no one else walking the grounds.
“He got reassigned,” replied a guard who Montague heard the others call Gums. His brown teeth and thick gum line were permanently exposed.
Montague was cautious. The guard didn’t look like an officer of Illyrium; none of them did. And Sam, who would exchange a joke with Montague whenever he’d see him, wouldn’t even make eye-contact. “My wagon broke and I lost my donkey along with most of my supply. I need—”
The men giggled and pouted, mocking him as if Montague were a whining child. Their breaths reeked of ale. The king would feel disrespected if he knew that his officers were drunk during duty, Montague thought.
“Please, I need to speak to the king.”
“And who are you? What’s your business in Illyrium?” the guard was stern in his questioning.
“I am Montague La-Rose. I have herbs and spices for the kingdom—medicines. But, I’ve had a terrible time along the way. All but one bag of my supply was spoiled.”
“You think a king would take time out of his busy schedule just to hear about a farmer’s bad day?” Gums pursed his lips. “And that’s it? One dirty bag is all you have for an entire kingdom?”
The farmer glanced at what little he had to offer. At that, he became even more disappointed in himself. “The wheel on my wagon broke along the river bed, dumping my supply. This is all I was able to salvage.” With such little product to sell, he wouldn’t even bother making the trips to Grale or Mern. Illyrium would be the only kingdom to reap the benefits of Montague’s rare herbs.
Gums scanned him from forehead to foot. “Is that why you look like a dog covered in shit?”
The guards laughed.
Montague regarded his attire and realized how sweaty and dirty he was from his unfortunate morning. Noticing the pommel of his sword tilting out of his robe, he pulled the wool across his chest, making sure the handle and scabbard were concealed. These men had already proved to be hostile and they obviously thought Montague was a fool. If they noticed that he was armed, they might feel threatened. The farmer wanted to avoid conflict at all cost.
“Ben Paddett delivered a wagon full of herbs along with another two wagons of salted cattle carcasses. Like you said yourself—too late. Now piss off,” said Gums.
The guards turned. They must have assumed that Montague would just walk away after they’d ordered him off, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not without getting his herbs to the sick princess. If they only knew that Montague had been treating her with these plants, they would reconsider, he thought. But he chose not to speak of her health. He was sworn to secrecy.
“Didn’t you hear me farmer?” Gums asked, the veins in his forehead now bulging.
“Please,” Montague cried, holding out the burlap bags, “I have nutwood and pigroot. They are extremely rare and valuable. And I am the only one who can provide them. You need to get these to the castle. The king dubs them high priority items.”
“Ordering me, are you?” Gums frowned. “I’ll decide what needs to be done. And paying you for a dirty sack of herbs doesn’t seem like a likely option. I don’t care how rare they are. How much do you think a bag is actually worth?”
“My family has been providing the three kingdoms with these herbs for decades. The king requests them. If I can only discuss it with him at the castle—”
“You’ll discuss it with me!”
In all forty-four years of his life, Montague had been inside the castle three times. He admired the architecture and enjoyed the fragrant smells of burnt-brown sugar and carrot butter. The last two visits he’d made to Illyrium were not traditional deliveries; they were for medical examinations and treatment plans for the princess. He thought that maybe he could persuade the king to pay him at a healer’s wage, which was much more than a farmer’s income and would last him well beyond the next harvest.
“My lords,” Montague said. They were no lords, but he hoped that flattering them with high titles would alleviate the tension. He kneeled and offered the bag. “My apologies, I meant no disrespect. I shall leave it as a gift for the king.”
“You’re awful insistent, a little suspicious if I were to say. No one gives away anything for free,” said Gums. “Didn’t you say that they were valuable?”
“It’s more important for our lords and ladies to have it than me. I can always grow more. I promise you I have no ill intent towards the royal family.”
For a moment Gums studied Montague, squinted, then relaxed his interrogating eyes and said, “No, I don’t think you do. But I still don’t trust you.” He turned to the other guards, “Let’s see if there is anything hidden inside.”
Gums grabbed the sack. He poked at it over and over again, spewing the fresh greens onto wet ground, laughing.
Montague watched the last fruits of his labor go to waste. Finally, he turned away, disgusted.
“Hey!” Gums bellowed. “Let me at least get you a cup of wine to warm your bones before the journey home, huh.” The guards snickered. “See? We are decent fellows.” Gums looked to the gate tender, Sam, and said, “Bring him some wine.”
The boy ran out with a pitcher and a mug. Without acknowledging their friendship, Sam handed Montague the mug and poured a
