Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
* Day 13 *

Summary:  While his wife and daughter are busy with their Christmas preparations, Adam entertains his ladies with tales of times past–perhaps a very long way past!

Rating: G  2,600 words

This story was written for the Bonanza Brand 2020 Advent Calendar, originated in the Forums.

Upon a Knight of Olde

“What on earth are you still doing with these dreadful purple mittens?” Mama cried out, brandishing something she’d winkled from the corner of Papa’s trunk.

Whenever we were making preparations for a visit to the country–as we were this Christmas, which Papa said we’d be spending at the country manorhouse of a good friend–Mama, usually so calm and confident, came as close to panic as ever I saw her. Anything we intended to pack had to be washed, and washed again, and painstakingly checked for signs of mending or wear. Mama often commented that our clothes needed to look as nice and last twice as long as anyone else’s, but lately I had been growing like a Ponderosa pine (or so Papa said), and it must have become hard for her to keep my clothes to such a standard. Judging from the frantic note in her voice, she’d decided doing the same for my father was almost as bad.

Papa, just as frantic, almost yanked the knitware out of her hands. “Leave them alone! I’d be down a fair few fingers if not for these mittens. They’re the warmest things I own.”

“Yes, and if you’re ever stranded on Dartmoor you won’t need a bell to call for help, loud as they are,” Mama snapped, but she let him tuck the vivid things into his coat pocket.

Looking around him at the piles of clothing and luggage, Papa said more softly, “I’m sorry, Linda. I only thought you should relax and enjoy the holiday with friends, instead of having to do all the work of it yourself.”

“Someone always has to do the work, Adam,” Mama sighed as she got up from in front of his trunk to wrap her arms tightly around him. “I’ll enjoy it once I’m there, I know. And if we weren’t going I’m sure your friend would have invited someone else, so we’re not even imposing on the servants, really. Besides, Christmas will be happier for Elizabeth with other children to play with.”

“I like Christmas with just us,” I said loyally, though the idea of playing games with someone else my age did sound fun.

“Three people’s not enough for Christmas cheer,” Papa smiled at me. “Christmas is for crowded houses and glittering trees, and feasting and ‘pastime with good company’.” He bent down to kiss Mama gently on the nose. “And no matter where I take them my family always makes me proud. I don’t know how you manage it, my darling.”

“Much practice.” Mama suddenly looked much more cheerful. “My father was a minister, remember, and no minister on either side of the Atlantic has ever been paid enough to raise his family in comfort. Making and managing’s always been what I’m used to–and I must say it’s more pleasant to plan out next year’s wardrobe with a treat like this in prospect. I will enjoy this visit.” She added a pile of Papa’s shirts to the overflowing work-basket and settled to her mending. “Elizabeth, don’t you still have some hemstitching to do?”

I was working on a set of handkerchiefs to give Papa for his Christmas present. The hemstitching around their edges was almost finished, but I had hoped to embroider his initials on them as well, or at least do something to make them a little less plain. I got out the last square of dainty linen, trying to keep it out of Papa’s sight.

“Such diligence,” Papa said, glancing from Mama to me. “Is there any way I can contribute?”

Mama looked up, a mischievous smile on her face. “In medieval times, when the ladies of the castle were gathered together plying their needles, the least skilled among them was oft expected to amuse the others with some tale of pious works or noble errantry.”

“Ah, if it’s medieval times you wish to emulate, I might be able to oblige.” Papa matched the tips of his fingers together, his smile a close copy of Mama’s. “Fair demoiselles, hast heard the tale of how I met King Arthur?”

“Verily, that I have not. Pray continue, worthy squire,” Mama laughed. “Didst meet him here in Albion’s fair land?”

“Not so, my lady. ‘Twas in a country far to the west, a place of long, dusty trails and twisted canyons, and bandits most bloodthirsty that I encountered him, soon after the stagecoach upon which I did travel passed a small village hight Morris Flats.”

“A name unfamiliar to me from the legends of the King.” Mama bit short her thread with a snap. “Or any other legends, come to that.”

“Indeed.” Papa was downright grinning now, with one cheek dimpled. “But nonetheless it was some few miles farther along that road that we were beset by highwaymen, or, rather, banditos fierce yet strangely courteous….”

Banditos meant Spanish highwaymen, or perhaps Mexican, I supposed. If this was in Nevada, Mexicans made sense–more than King Arthur, surely? I began to think Papa was funning us with some tall tale that had nothing to do with medieval times at all. However sincere his voice sounded, I didn’t trust his smile.

“A mounted knight? In armor? And what did the courteous bandits do?” Mama’s voice cut into my puzzled thoughts. She also sounded unconvinced, though interested.

“Ran off. And after them he galloped, lance in hand–” and Papa broke off in laughter, eyes closed to better see whatever it was he was remembering. It couldn’t be something he was making up after all…though still not medieval. Nevada couldn’t be medieval; it wasn’t old enough. Even I knew that, and I was only nine….

Papa had gone on again with the story while I had stopped listening. Mama was leaning forward now, the mending neglected on her lap, one hand supporting her chin but not quite hiding her delighted smile. “On his back?”

“With his legs in the air like a…like an unrolled pillbug.” Papa was smiling right back at her. “And once I got him on his feet again, he was back on his horse and away. Not a thing I could say to stop him.”

“The horse.” Mama shook her head in amazement. “White, I suppose?”

“As snow. Except for her nose–that was pink. Now I come to think of it, the nose was almost a perfect match for the long underwear he had on under the armor.”

“Underwear? You mean…like red flannel longjohns only…only….”

“Only faded. I hate to think how old it must have been. But very well kept, except for the color. Almost as well kept as you would manage, my love. Oh, and complete with the flap on the back. I wonder what the knights of old would have made of that.”

Mama picked up her mending again. “Probably would have cried out with joy. I never heard that any of their equipment made provisions of that sort. So he cantered off and by the time the driver recovered his wits you were the only one left…again?”

“Again,” Papa confirmed. “So back I went to the jail. The first time it was pending identification, but this time it was for my own protection. That poor sheriff…I haven’t told you about him. He had a face like a frog…wide mouth, thin lips, big bulging worried eyes. Big bulging body too. But a nice frog, mind you. The sort Little Joe used to keep in his pocket to worry Miss Jones with.”

“Miss Jones?” I’d never heard of a Jones in the King Arthur stories.

“His teacher,” Papa reminded me, and went right back to the story. “So the sheriff fired off another wire to Virginia City, summoning Pa to collect his addle-brained son, and did everything he could think of to keep me quiet and peaceable. Can’t say as I blame him for worrying. If I hadn’t convinced myself I couldn’t have made up the longjohns, I’d have been worrying myself. I hate to think what the bandits were going through.”

Mama threaded her needle and went back to work. “They were still out there, of course.”

“Still waiting for their big payday. Their leader, Juan, was most polite, but he was a single-minded cuss. He wanted that strongbox something awful, as Hoss would say. Don’t know how the rest of his gang felt by then, though. They weren’t short on ammunition by any means, but they sure weren’t eager to use it!”

“Just as well for you.”

“Just as well for everyone. I don’t think for a minute that tinplate armor would have held off a well-aimed bullet. Besides, the knight mostly left his helm open. Must have been awful hot in there–his face was redder than his longjohns. Even at night.”

“Night?”

“Oh, he came to rescue me that second night. Whether I wanted it or not, mind you. And ‘not’ was definitely what I wanted, but…I wonder if he was Irish, that fellow? Sure and he had a touch of the blarney to him. I wasn’t the only one he could talk into foolishness.”

“So King Arthur broke you out of jail, and…?”

“And he’d tracked down the bandits, just as he told me he had. Don’t ask me how he got close enough to find their hideout with all that armor clanging. Or where he stashed Gwendolyn–that was the horse– while he was creeping around. Must have set up a place of his own around there…I’m sorry I never saw it. He can’t have taken the armor off, though…the more I think about it, the more I wonder how he got it on in the first place. It wasn’t his niece that helped him.”

“His niece!” Mama’s voice soared an octave.

“She was on the stagecoach the third time the bandits attacked it. Searching for her uncle. It was the first time anyone but me had been on board. By then Pa and my brothers had arrived in Morris Flats too, of course. And Sheriff Coffee–I forget what excuse he made to come along.”

“And the bandits pulled off their ambush even with all those people there?”

“‘All those people’ were still in Morris Flats,” Papa reminded her. “There were enough little canyons threaded around there to hide a hundred bandit gangs–and a hundred King Arthurs, I suppose. You wouldn’t believe how many hidey-holes there are in Nevada until you’ve been there.”

“Or even after you have,” I heard Mama whisper under her breath. She knotted off her thread and started on another repair. “So the two of you ambushed the ambushers?”

“Ambuscadoes,” Papa corrected, emphasizing the Spanish with relish. “Well, we ambushed the guard, at least. He was half-asleep; probably still didn’t think he’d woken up even after he saw us. The rest of them weren’t quite as easy–they did outnumber us, after all, and we only had the shotgun we’d taken off the guard. So we set up a trap like the Indians did for buffalo. The knight used his long steel lance to dislodge some boulders and block off their path–I wonder where on earth he found that; it can’t have come with the armor–”

“Lances are made of wood. So they can shatter during a joust. ‘Break a lance’ is a metaphor for single combat.” Trust Mama to know all about medieval fighting.

“This one couldn’t shatter. It couldn’t even bend. Amazing thing. Anyway, he got them trapped in a cul-de-sac, and I covered them with the guard’s shotgun while he made them surrender and tied them up. Then we all paraded back to Morris Flats, to the amazement of all and sundry. And his niece.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

Papa nodded. “I had to go back for the trial, and so did he–with the niece right alongside him so he couldn’t run away again. It was a bit of a shock to see him without the armor. He looked like a mousy little bank clerk, which is exactly what he had been, I believe. But once he got to  talking…well, I told you he had the gift of gab. The court hung on every word.”

“And they found the bandits guilty?”

“Oh, yes. Very short sentences, though. I don’t think the jury really took the case seriously. After all, no one got hurt but the driver, and they never did get any money.” Papa shook his head slowly, still with a smile on his lips. “I was able to speak to Juan, afterwards. Asked him if he’d learned his lesson, the rogue, but all he would say was it had been an honor to meet me–and, of course, the celebrated Señor Quixote.”

“But your man was playing at King Arthur!”

“Yes, that’s what I told Juan too,” Papa agreed. “But Juan only laughed, and said, ‘You Anglos, what else would you be calling him? Me, I know the romances, and I know the man who reads them until he has to go out and and make one for himself. Even as his adversary I am proud to have encountered such a hero. There shall be other chances to make my fortune, later.’ I hope he did find his fortune–an honest fortune, too. He wasn’t a bad sort, really.”

“Have you ever met someone who was?” Mama said with a smirk.

For a moment Papa’s face set into stone. “I have…a few.” With an effort he went back to his lighter tone. “But not in Morris Flats, at least. Juan was right, of course, right down to the overprotective niece. I was ashamed of myself for not noticing it earlier. And maybe ashamed for not realizing what I needed to do, if I was ever to reach a satisfied old age. Stop turning my back on the quests that needed me, and the adventures calling my name. Stop pretending I wanted to be nothing but a rancher all my life. And so…here I am. Here we are.”

“In part. That wasn’t the only reason you came back East again, and then to England,” Mama reminded him. She laid the shirt she’d mended to one side and picked up the next on the pile. “And I never heard that Don Quixote won his Dulcinea, let alone had a child with her.”

Papa pursed up his lips and nodded. “And whose story do you think we are, little one?” He twisted around to face me suddenly. “King Arthur, or Don Quixote? The hero on the fine white horse, or the hollow dreamer?”

“I don’t know about Don Quixote,” I said, stumbling over the funny foreign name. Not yet, I added to myself. “But you would be King Arthur anyway. I do know that.”

“Pray God you’re right,” Papa said, all serious again, and then he came across the room to kiss the top of my head. “But thank you for your faith in me, Elizabeth. Sometimes I still wonder….”

I’d have to iron the handkerchief again, since I’d crumpled it up to keep it out of sight. But even on the wrinkled fabric I could see what I’d embroidered as I listened, and it still looked good to me. A tiny helmet, like I’d seen in the pattern books, with a crossed sword and lance below. King Arthur’s arms and armor, for my very own liege lord.

In memory of my father, who would have been ninety-five years and one month exactly today, if the fates had allowed it. Merry Christmas, where ever you may be, Daddy.

Character: King Arthur
Gift: something embroidered by the giver

Inspired by:  A Knight to Remember
Director:  Vincent McEveety
Written by:  Robert V. Barron, David Dortort (creator)

Link to the Bonanza Brand 2020 Advent Calendar – Day 14 – Harry’s Horse by Patina