Chapter 3
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From the Chronicles of Bildas the Surly:
in 449 Merlin went up to Stonehenge for the Smoke Masters Tournament. Merlin again bested the other smokers who came from as far away as Lothian and even from across the Narrow Sea. This was the third time Merlin emerged as the champion. Many other smokers decried the victory claiming collusion or treachery. Merlin declared them spoiled sports
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Percivale stopped his horse at the edge of a tree line. From there he could see a small, dreary settlement nestled at the bottom of the hill. Beyond the village, more hills sparkled in the light of the setting sun. In the cluster of mud huts, a few people roamed the dirt streets. Percivale counted only two wooden buildings.
"Why are we standing around?"
Percivale flinched at the shrill voice of Princess Moxie as if someone had picked at an open sore. He didn't have to see her to know she had one hand on an ample hip while the other lashed the ends of the reins against her saddle. Percivale had trouble accepting that it had been only four days since they rode out of Smedley's castle in the middle of the night. Somehow, the four days on the road with Moxie seemed like four months.
"Why are we standing around?" Moxie repeated the question in a more strident voice. "Why aren't we moving?"
"I wanna make sure this village isn't filled with bandits," Percivale replied.
"Well, I'm tired and thirsty, so stop stalling and get on with it. I want to sleep in a bed, not on the ground."
Percivale's lips curled in disgust before he looked over his shoulder. The princess gave him a withering stare to which he had grown accustomed. Behind Moxie, Bors rolled his eyes and Gareth shook his head with a grim smile.
"Percivale is right, Princess," Bors said. "Your father charged us not to place you in danger."
Moxie made a face at the comment.
Percivale shrugged and nudged Onyx forward to descend the hill. He wished he had more time to study the village, but a bandit trap was preferable to listening to more of Moxie's whining.
"I'll hang back a bit in case there's trouble." Gareth stopped his horse at the edge of the trees.
By the time Percivale, Moxie and Bors reached the village, three men in threadbare clothes had gathered in the road. They looked fearful as the riders approached. Percivale slid off his horse and held up empty hands palms forward. "We're travelers and we come in peace. We're lookin' for a place to spend the night."
"A clean place." Moxie leaned down over the horse's neck and talked out of the corner of her mouth. "Tell him!"
Percivale ignored her.
"Travelers who come in peace are welcome," the man in the middle said. "The inn is the last house on the road."
"The guy on the right." Moxie hissed and kicked Percivale in the shoulder. "He's thinking dirty thoughts about me. How dare a peasant do that. Kill him!"
Percivale's jaw dropped open. The villager did stare at Moxie. Her long dark hair had been done up in an intricate design that hadn't traveled well. Her messed-up hair and her unpleasant facial features combined with a figure resembling an ale barrel — short, squat and strong — made for a frightful-looking woman. "Umm, maybe he's never seen a royal before." Percivale didn't think Moxie looked very royal with road dust covering her gray blouse and black trews.
