about and both of whom he admired, notwithstanding, of course, the fact that one of them, in the purely literal sense, never lived.
Now, as Benjamin looked up briefly from his sketching, he saw the White Knight extracting his blood-red sword from the body of his adversary and he heard yet another musket shot ring out. He watched as the White Knight’s body stiffened rather strangely and his hands went to his heart almost as if he were saying a prayer, which, quite possibly, he was. The White Knight held his blood-covered hands to the sky, and then he dropped to the dust from which all knights are born.
The remaining two highwaymen rode off into the hills. The Gray Knight got up from the ground shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs and got back on his horse. The White Knight was buried by the side of the road, and a simple wooden cross adorned with his colors was left to commemorate his existence. He had finally met the man on the bridge.
The caravan moved onward toward the court of King Jonjo, with the Black Knight riding on one side and the Gray Knight riding on the other. For his part, Benjamin was currently absorbed in busily, blithely, obliviously sketching in his little art portfolio. Benjamin did not really miss the White Knight. Benjamin had never missed anyone at all.
Chapter Nine
A Magical Boy in
King Jonjo’s Court
M AGICAL BOY ! Magical boy!” shouted the king, after downing another hefty swig of absinthe. “Your only effect is to annoy!”
“Now, now, your majesty,” said Feinberg. “The couriers have informed the castle that the boy is inside our gates within five or six hours. His name, by the way, is Benjamin.”
“Ben! Ben! Ben! Ben!” sang the king. “You’re the reason we practice zen.”
It would be funny, Feinberg reflected, if it wasn’t so pathetic. With all the kingly pursuits that the king could and should be pursuing, he invariably managed to obsess upon matters most trivial. Once, his majesty had spent many months poring over the plans for the new croquet court, which, as things had transpired, was never built. Another time, the king had spent countless days coordinating campaign colors with the White Knight, who, incidentally, according to courier dispatches, had recently been vanquished on the road to the court. Easy come, easy go, thought Feinberg, who was not a great devotee of knights in general. Where were they when you really needed them? And now the king had focused entirely, to the exclusion of all other royal affairs, on the rapid creation of the nativity art for the Christmas mass by a young idiot savant whom Feinberg prayed was more savant than he was idiot. If that were not the case, Feinberg feared, he himself would be rapidly regarded as an idiot. And in the court of King Jonjo, that could mean death or worse.
“Ben-jamin! Ben-jamin!” sang the king, helping himself to another adult portion of absinthe. “When, oh, when, will you begin?”
“Really, your majesty,” appealed Feinberg. “When the boy gets here he must rest. Then we must clean him up a bit from his long journey before we can properly present him to the court. After all, your worship, the lad is only ten.”
“Ten! Ten! Ten! Ten!” intoned the king, now up and marching around his private quarters. “The bloody childhood’s got to end! If indeed the child can’t draw,” the monarch continued merrily, “I’ll cut his body with a saw.”
“Your majesty!” cried Feinberg, feigning dismay. Feinberg had become quite adept at feigning dismay over the years. He’d become quite adept at feigning practically everything else as well. That, indeed, was how he’d first gained the confidence of the king. Now, if he could just make it through Christmas Eve with his head still attached to his shoulders. No doubt about it, there was more than just the royal vanity riding on young Benjamin Welch. If the boy were to fail, the entire realm would shudder in the storm of King Jonjo’s royal wrath.