The Eyes of the Dragon - Stephen King [74]
Nor was that all. Some instinct had told him to forbid any of his family members to go to Thomas's coronation and he had listened to that inner voice. Tonight he was glad.
It had happened after the coronation, and he supposed he should have expected it. He went into a meadhouse to have a drink before starting home. He was very depressed by the whole sorry business of the King's murder and Peter's imprisonment; he felt that he needed a drink. He had been recognized as Ben's father.
"Did yer son help his friend do the deed, Staad?" one of the drunks had called, and there had been nasty laughter.
"Did he hold the old man while the prince poured the burnin ' pizen down his thrut?" one of the others called out in turn.
Andrew had put his mug down half empty. This was not a good place to be. He would leave. Quickly.
But before he could get out, a third drunk- a giant of a man who smelled like a pile of moldy cabbages-pulled him back.
"And how much did you know?" this giant had asked in a low, rumbling voice.
"Nothing," Andrew said. "I know nothing about this business, and neither does my son. Let me pass."
"You'll pass when-and if-we decide to let yer pass," the giant said, and shoved him backward into the waiting arms of the other drunks.
The pummeling then began. Andy Staad was pushed from one to the next, sometimes slapped, sometimes elbowed, sometimes tripped. No one quite dared to go as far as punching him, but they came close; he had seen in their eyes how badly the had wanted to. If the hour had been later and they had been drunker, he might have found himself in very serious trouble indeed.
Andrew was not tall, but he was broad-shouldered and well muscled. He calculated that he might be able to dust off any two of these idlers in a fair fight-with the exception of the giant, and he thought that perhaps he could give even that fellow a run for his money. One or two, possibly even three but there were eight or ten there in all. If he had been Ben's age, full of pride and hot blood, he still might have had a go at them. But he was forty-five, and did not relish the thought of creeping home to his family beaten within an inch of his life. It would hurt him and frighten them, and both things would be to no purpose-it was just the Staad luck come home with a vengeance, and there was nothing to do but endure it. The barkeeper stood watching it all, doing nothing, not attempting to put a stop to it.
At last they had let him escape.
Now he feared for his wife his daughter and most of all for his son Ben, who would be the prime target for bullies such as those. If it'd been Ben in there instead of me, he thought, they would have used their fists, all right. They would have used their fists and beaten him unconscious or worse.
So, because he loved his son and was afraid for him, he had struck him and threatened to drive him from the house if Ben ever mentioned the prince by name again.
People are funny, sometimes.
That Ben Staad didn't already understand abstractly about this strange new state of affairs he discovered very concretely the next day.
He had driven six cows to market and sold them for a goo price (to a stockman who didn't know him, or the price mightn't have been so good). He was walking toward the city gates, when a bunch of loitering men set upon him, calling him murderer and accomplice and names even less pleasant.
Ben did well against them. They beat him quite badly in the end-there were seven of them-but they paid for the privilege with bloody noses, black eyes, and lost teeth. Ben picked himself up and went home, arriving after dark. He ached all over, but he was, all things considered, rather pleased with himself.
His father took one look at him and knew exactly what had happened. "Tell your mother you fell down," he said.
"Aye, Da '," Ben said, knowing his mother would not believe any such story.
"And after this, I'll take the cows to market, or the corn, or whatever we have to take to market at