Chapter 1

Sir Raymond of Rutledge

Sir Raymond, noble Knight of the Realm, swordsman extraordinaire, and all-around good fellow wondered if he would have to pick vulture feathers out of his Honda’s grill that evening. Up ahead, smack in the middle of his narrow two-lane highway, a gathering of the huge black birds was busily feasting upon a flattened armadillo, the official State Roadkill of Texas. With a beep of his horn and a touch of his brakes, Sir Raymond gave them time to get out of his way. Reluctantly, they flapped their wings just enough to give them lift-off. One of them, however, could not even bother to do that, it merely hopped off to the side of the road right before Sir Raymond whizzed by.

Sir Raymond, also known as Ray Rutledge, single early thirties traveling salesman now had an amusing story of vulture insolence to tell his printing paper customers. Through his open windows an early fall breeze ruffled his auburn hair and brought with it the scent of deep East Texas piney woods. He sneezed. Had he remembered to bring along his antihistamine? If so, he’d better pop one at the next stop. Until then he’d take caffeine. He reached for his still steaming cup of dark roast, freshly brewed at Doctor Java’s on the Parkerville courthouse square. He took a sip. “Ahhh.” A wide smile spread underneath his neatly trimmed mustache.

The hot liquid inspiration teased his taste buds and stimulated pleasant thoughts of the past weekend’s renaissance fair. Prior to their mock battle, he and Sir Bernard (produce manager for a local grocery chain) had flipped a coin to see who would win that day. Ray won. Their realistic medieval swordplay, with its clang of metal against metal, drew enthusiastic applause from the surrounding audience. As the pre-destined winner, Ray had earned the victor’s complimentary flagon of honey mead at the I’m In the Mood for Mead booth served to him by Ingrid, the busty Viking wench with her chainmail bra lined with rabbit fur. It had been a perfect weekend.

Well, nearly perfect. If Julie had been with him it would have been completely perfect. Together they could have wandered hand in hand through medieval streets surrounded by artisan booth after artisan booth. Undoubtedly, she would have found the exotic selections at Ye Olde Potions for All Occasions very exciting. With her blond hair, blue eyes, and cute spray of freckles across nose and cheeks, she would have made the perfect princess.

Seconds later, time and place gave way to Ray’s imagination.

. . . Icy fear clutched at Princess Julie as she ran through the dark and dangerous forest. Dense tangles of brush and limbs clawed at her, ripped her silk gown, tore off her tiara. She stumbled. Steaming foul breath heated the back of her neck. Her scream ended in a choking sob.

“Fear naught my lady for I, Sir Raymond, have arrived.” As if by Merlin’s magic, he suddenly stood before her.

Her eyes, heart, and arms reached out to him. “Oh, Sir Raymond, save me. I beg you. Save me, and I shall be yours.”

For the slightest of moments his gaze lingered on her heaving cleavage. However, such thoughts would have to wait. The “Code of Chivalry” must be obeyed. Princess Julie would be returned safely home. Then, and only then, could such thoughts become actions.

“Your wish is my command, my lady.”

With a rasp of cold steel, he drew his shining blade from its scabbard and took his first step toward the vile unspeakable creature . . .

HONK!

“Aaah!” Ray yelped. Hot coffee fumbled onto his pants as his rear end momentarily left the comfort of the driver’s seat.

Gritting his teeth against the dark roast pain, he checked his rearview mirror. A primer-gray pickup with a grill full of large black feathers was attempting to mate with his tailpipe. Inside its cab, what appeared to be a pair of escapees from some federal idiot assistance program were laughing their heads off. Ray could have sworn he heard dueling banjos.

The pickup swerved into the left lane and zoomed up alongside of Ray. Not only was Ray’s zipper soaked and steaming, he now faced an unpleasant choice—to look or not to look. He had watched enough one-star movies on cable to understand that eye contact with backwoods cretins would most likely result in something unpleasant. But so did not making eye contact. “Crap,” he said, glancing in the general direction of the miniature Prince Valiant protecting his dashboard. Unfortunately, Prince Val was fresh out of advice. Ray turned to look.

The toothy grin on the guy riding shotgun indicated that a dental appointment was several years overdue. The guy pointed at Ray while the driver goosed the gas, making the pickup leap forward and back again. In case Ray failed to take the hint, the driver goosed it twice.

Ray now had two clear options. He could accept the obvious challenge—floor his gas and a dangerous race would be on. Or he could do the logical, practical thing—drive like his grandmother.

Grandmother won. Ray eased his Honda back a length, hoping he might give the idiots the impression that they were actually out-racing him. However, they hadn’t just fallen off some okra truck. They dropped back even with Ray.

After a hundred yards or so of being nearly joined at their door panels, the guy riding shotgun yelled something at Ray that the breeze blew away. But there was no mistaking the guy’s middle finger. He was ambidextrous—he had one in each hand. Point made, the pickup cut right in front of Ray, almost nicking his fender. Then, with an explosion of black exhaust, it rocketed away leaving Ray behind in a cloud of smoke and a wet crotch. The pickup soon sped around a curve and out of sight.

Filled with equal doses of anger and humiliation, a couple of miles went by before Ray summoned up his usual antidote for such things . . . The taller of the two fools laughed as the rotten-toothed one flipped a middle finger.

His sword would not be needed. His fists would be enough for these two louts. Sir Raymond took the first step toward them . . .

It was lunch time when Ray pulled into the crowded parking lot of Uncle Buck’s Home Cookin’ restaurant. His coffee stain had dried up and thankfully had blended well with his dark slacks. Consequently, he had not been embarrassed during his morning’s sales calls.

Ray walked through the front entrance and waved at Uncle Buck, whose head and thick shoulders showed mountain-like above the order-up counter. Spatula in hand, Uncle Buck waved back, which caused a bit of greasy something to go flying. It landed on the tractor cap of a man seated at the long lunch counter. In vigorous debate with another customer about which commercial brand of hot sauce was more likely to make your tongue sweat, the man never noticed.

A spot at the lunch counter opened up when another customer, wearing camo from head to toe, stood to leave. The man left a short stack of ones for a tip and a scattering of biscuit crumbs next to his empty bowl of jalapeno chili. Ray took the man’s place on the red vinyl swivel stool, which faced a row of six coffee pots on the back counter. None of them was decaf.

An attractive fortyish Hispanic waitress set a fresh mug of steaming coffee and a chaser of ice water in front of Ray as she scooped up her tip, swept the crumbs onto the floor, and disappeared the empty bowl and spoon. “How’s my favorite travelin’ man?” she said.

“Fine, Juanita. How are you?”

“Never better, never worse, Hon. What’s new with you?”

“Not much, just the same old thing. Customers to see, orders to turn in.”

“Everybody’s got to do what they got to do.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“What’s the matter, Hon? You look kinda down.”

“Oh, I got harassed this morning by some good ol’ boys in a pickup. They had bad teeth and a loud horn. I have to admit that was definitely not the same old thing.” His attempted chuckle fell flat.

“You all right?” Her expression echoed her concern.

“Oh, yeah. The only thing hurt was my pride. I’m just glad nobody else saw it. It was embarrassing.”

Setting cream and sugar in front of him, Juanita said, “If that’s all, you’re lucky then. You gotta watch it nowadays. There’s a lot of crazies out there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ray said, as he poured a tablespoon of sugar into his mug, “but I feel like I should have done something about it.”

“Oh, no. Don’t you think that for a minute. Those good ol’ boys can be pretty mean when they want to.” Juanita said, as she handed him a spoon from a Mason Jar full of mismatched utensils.

“Yeah, but —”

“Butt is what I’m talkin’ about. They could’ve kicked yours from here to Kirbyville.”

Staring at the steam rising out of his mug, Ray absentmindedly stirred in the sugar. “Yeah, I suppose.” Then looking...