by Chuck Black
“Does Parson always sit back there?” he asked.
“Always.”
“What you've done for these people today is remarkable,” Bentley said. “Do you do it often?”
“Not often enough,” she replied, looking straight ahead.
“Lord Kingsley's taxes are too harsh for the people.”
A smirk flitted across her face, but that was all.
“Where are you from, Eirwyn?”
She sighed heavily. “My father owns land not far from here. We raise lotsa different crops… and hogs.”
“I see,” Bentley said, thinking, That explains the smell. “Would you mind if I helped you on your next mercy run?”
Eirwyn was quiet for a moment. “I don't think that'll work.”
Bentley nodded, and the rest of the trip back to the farm was made in silence. When they arrived, Bentley jumped from the wagon.
“I am…honored to have been a part of this. Thank you, Eirwyn.” He turned to leave.
“Bentley.”
He turned about.
“Thanks fer the hep. And don't tell no one my name.”
He nodded and smiled. She smiled back, but this time with her lips closed. As the wagon passed by, Parson looked at Bentley and nodded too. This time Parson's gaze was not empty, and the friendly gesture warmed Bentley's heart. He watched the wagon disappear down the road to the east, wondering if he would ever see this Maiden of Mercy and her large companion again.
LORD OF
OPPRESSION
Over the next couple of weeks, Bentley worked closely with Anwen in the family's field, learning as much and as fast as he could from her. Though the farm was quite small—like all the farms around it—the labor was grueling, especially on meager rations, and his body protested with sore muscles, aching joints, and blistered hands. After three weeks, however, the blisters on his hands receded and his muscles became accustomed to their new use. He came to find joy in the labor, much as he had when training with the sword, discovering small ways to improve efficiency and watching the labor of his hand bear fruit.
His thoughts often turned to the young woman named Eirwyn and her missions of mercy. He was amazed at how wonderful it felt to have been even a small part of her efforts. He kept an eye on the road in case she happened by again.
Creighton, Anwen, Meg, and Nia quickly came to seem like family to Bentley. Meg and Nia adopted him as a big brother, and he spent many hours playing with them. He discovered he had a gift for telling stories, and the girls implored him nightly to do so. Most often his tales were of grand knights and fair ladies, and he relied heavily on his past experiences in Chessington to help fill their imaginations with wonder. Their favorite story of all was the true chronicle of Sir Leinad and Lady Tess. Their eyes gleamed as he told of that couple of old, of their unwavering commitment to the King, of their love for each other, and of their mission to bring the promise of a Deliverer to the people.
Creighton slowly recovered, and by the fourth week he was able to work a few hours each day. Walsch came to visit them regularly, and friendship quickly developed among them all. One morning, to everyone's delight, Walsch stopped in with fresh corn cakes. They sat at the table and shared a breakfast together.
“At midday let's take some of our greens to Holbrook, shall we?” Creighton said to Bentley and the rest of his family.
Everyone stop chewing their food and looked at him as if remembering their last trip to the village.
“I'll be fine,” Creighton assured them. “You all have nothing to worry about.”
Walsch laughed. “At least you picked a day full o’ sunshine an’ blue sky.”
Bentley laughed too, which helped Anwen and the girls relax.
“Perhaps we shall see Lord Kingsley and his family on the estate tour,” Creighton added with a smile.
“Why should we want to see that?” Anwen asked. “They are cruel and—”
“Anwen!” Creighton said. “We don't want to give the girls an attitude of ungratefulness.”
“I don't like them anyway, Papa,” Meg said. “Especially the Painted Ice Princess. She's evil!”
“Meg! That's enough!” Creighton declared.
“Ice Princess evil!” little Nia mimicked.
Creighton looked disgusted. “Look what you've done now, Anwen! You're going to get us in trouble one day.”
Walsch laughed loudly and slapped Creighton on the shoulder. “I think you're outnumbered, Creighton, for I'm with them!”
Anwen shook her head. “Sometimes you're too kind, husband. Lord Kingsley and his children don't deserve your devotion, especially that pompous son of his.”
“Perhaps not. But I have to watch out for you and the girls, so I will do whatever that takes, even give my devotion to a ruler such as he.”
“Excuse me,” Bentley asked, “but who is this Ice Princess? And Lord Kingsley has a son?”
“Lord Braith and Lady Gwylin are Lord Kingsley's son and daughter,” Walsch explained. “Braith is the older.”
“Lady Gwylin only leaves the castle once a month for the estate tour,” Anwen added, “or when Lord Kingsley takes them on a trip to another region.”
Meg added, “She's called the Painted Ice Princess because she always paints her face white and is cold as ice.”
Anwen leaned forward as if to tell some juicy story. “Lord Kingsley's wife, Lady Rhiannon, died in childbirth. There is a rumor that she had two baby girls and that Gwylin's twin sister died with the mother, but some say she is still alive and so hideous that Lord Kingsley never lets her be seen by anyone.”
Creighton put his hand on his wife's hand. “Anwen, you're going to fill the girls’ heads with all sorts of silly notions.”
“What of Braith?” Bentley asked. “What kind of man is he?”
Creighton leaned back in his chair. A look of despair came over him.
Walsch finished a drink from his cup. “We'd hoped that Lord Kingsley's son might one day rule more justly than his father.” He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. “But alas, Sir Avarick has been the boy's guide these past seven years, and I fear he will be worse than his father.”
The five of them were silent for a time, and then Walsch stood up. “On that fine note, I'd best be off.”
Anwen gave him a hug. “Thank you for the corn cakes, Walsch. You and Bentley have been too kind to us.”
Walsch blushed. “'Tis nothin’. They was just going t’ spoil anyways.” With a smile, he left the cottage.
Later that day, Bentley and Creighton were out in the field harvesting a ripe crop of barley. Bentley had quickly mastered the use of the sickle, though it caused him to miss the feel of his sword in his hand.
“Oh joy,” Creighton muttered as he looked toward the road from Holbrook.
Bentley followed his glance and saw three mounted men coming their way.
“Who is it?” Bentley asked.
“Sir Avarick,” Creighton said nervously. “Just smile and agree to whatever he says.”
As the riders approached the farm, Creighton and Bentley ceased their labor. Creighton lowered his gaze, but Bentley stared up at the menacing form of Sir Avarick. He was partially clad in black armor and was indeed a mighty warrior to behold. His jaw line was broad, square, and smooth except for a small scar near his right ear. His hair was jet black, his dark eyes piercing as he glared down at Bentley. “Lower your eyes, knave,” his deep voice boomed.
Bentley hesitated, offended by the arrogance of the man. He dropped his gaze momentarily, then glanced back up to see Avarick looking sternly at one of his cohorts.
“Why didn't you tell me this farm had two laborers?”
“I did not know, my lord.” The knight bowed his head in submission.
“Is this true?” Avarick demanded of Creighton.
Creighton glanced up, then lowered his eyes again. “My leg was broken in an accident, my lord. This kind man agreed to help me until I fully recovered. I couldn't get to town to
see the landlord to tell him, but we were going today.”
Avarick glared at Creighton. “Don't lie to me, peasant. If you are working in the field, you are certainly able to see the landlord. You are not authorized to hire a laborer!”
“He did not hire me,” Bentley said bluntly.
Avarick turned his glare to Bentley, and they locked eyes. Bentley fought the urge to challenge the man, reminding himself that he was just a swordless peasant.
“Lord Kingsley requires extra tax for any additional laborers on a farm,” Avarick said. “Sir Owen, mark this farm down for an extra ten percent tax.”
“Yes, my lord,” the knight replied.
At that Creighton looked up with look of despondence. “My lord, I can hardly pay what you already require, and my leg is barely—”
“Silence!” Avarick drew his sword.
Gripping his sickle tightly, Bentley stepped forward and slightly in front of Creighton.
Creighton pulled backward on Bentley's shoulders. “I'm sorry, my lord. I will gladly pay the taxes Lord Kingsley desires. It is my honor and privilege.”
Avarick clenched his teeth and gripped his hilt tightly as he glared at Bentley. Creighton continued to pull Bentley backward, a couple of steps away from Avarick's horse.
For a long moment, Avarick scowled and pointed his sword at Bentley. “Watch your actions, knave!” He then sheathed his sword, wheeled his horse around, and rode off in a huff toward the next farm. His knights thundered after him.
“That was too close,” Creighton said with a big sigh. “He has struck men dead for less.”
Bentley was still angry and stared after Avarick. “Why do these people put up with him?”
Creighton looked at Bentley in disbelief. “Because we have no choice. Either we do or we die!”
“Better to die a free man than to live a slave,” Bentley said angrily.
“And what of my wife and daughters, Bentley?” Creighton pointed back to the cottage where Anwen and the girls had been working in the vegetable garden. They were standing still, having just seen the exchange. “Do I make a brave stand just to die and leave them to starve?”
Bentley looked at Creighton and felt his anger turn to sadness. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
“No, Creighton, you do not. You must live and care for them.” He managed a smile. “You are a wise and compassionate man. It's not your calling to change such things.”
But it is mine! Bentley thought. He put his hands back to his sickle and the job of harvesting, but his mind was beginning to settle on an entirely different task. He wasn't quite sure just what it was or how he was supposed to do it, but he knew without a doubt he was called to it.
THE PAINTED
ICE PRINCESS
Bentley had been to the village of Holbrook before. But this time, as he traveled there with Creighton, Anwen, Meg, and Nia, he saw it with new eyes.
For one thing, Lord Kingsley's beautiful castle seemed to loom more prominently than ever, its magnificent beauty heralding to all the land its master's wealth and power.
For another thing, the village seemed to be larger and more congested than it had been on his last visit. Bentley's companions confirmed that impression, saying that each year more people came to Kingsley for protection from the marauders of surrounding lands, especially from the Lucrums of the Boundary Mountains. Rumors of the mysterious and crude rituals practiced by this tribe of barbarians abounded, and such rumors struck fear in the people's hearts, keeping them pliant under the heavy hand of Lord Kingsley.
For Bentley, the stories brought greater understanding of the plight of the people and ignited a passion to discover what his purpose was in this place. On this particular afternoon, though, his purpose was simply to enjoy his friends and to learn as much as possible.
Creighton bartered with various shop owners and other farmers for his produce and seemed satisfied with the exchange. But the family and most of the villagers were tense and uptight, for this was the day of Lord Kingsley's estate tour. Castle guards came into the village to prod people into lining the main thoroughfare leading from the castle and on through the center of the community.
At the third hour of the afternoon, trumpets began to blast at the castle gates as thousands of people lining the main thoroughfare waited for the parade of Lord Kingsley his family, and his entourage of nobility and knights.
A herald stood atop the castle barbican, above the gates, and yelled, “Hear ye, people of the land! It is with great honor that I proclaim the mighty and benevolent Lord Kingsley, his noble family, and the court of Holbrook. Give homage to your protector and his heirs.”
Bentley stood beside Creighton and his family. Little Nia was jumping up and down trying to see beyond the people who lined the road.
“Here you go, little miss.” Bentley lifted her up onto his shoulder.
“Tanks, Bentley,” she said with glee. Like most of the village children, she loved the interlude from the drudgery of her daily life. She was not yet old enough to realize what an empty facade these parades presented.
“Here they come!” Meg shouted as a squire on horseback thundered through the gates, proudly carrying the flag of Holbrook Castle. He was followed by a pompous figure in a bright silk tunic—Sir Avarick, the first knight of Holbrook Castle. Behind him trailed twenty-five knights in similar array. Castle guards dispersed throughout the crowded streets “encouraged” the people to cheer as the procession passed by.
There was a small gap between the phalanx of knights and the elaborate open carriage that carried the noble family of Holbrook. Four prancing white carriage horses pulled Kingsley's carriage. As it drew closer, Bentley glimpsed a prominent and regal-looking man sitting beside a beautiful and yet strange-looking young woman, whom he assumed was Kingsley's daughter, Lady Gwylin. A handsome young man with bronze-colored hair rode beside the carriage on a gallant white steed—obviously Lord Braith, Kingsley's son. Behind the carriage rode a phalanx of nobles and a small company of dancers and musicians.
“It's the Painted Ice Princess!” Nia pointed at the carriage, still a short distance away.
“Shush that girl!” A nearby guard stepped toward Bentley and Nia. She pulled back her hand and looked frightened.
Bentley pulled her off of his shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “It's all right, Nia. Don't mind him.”
He turned her once again to the procession, for the carriage was nearly to them. Kingsley was a rotund little man decked in colorful silk, and he wore a fur hat that Bentley thought looked quite silly, although no one laughed. His eyes were dark and set deep, giving the impression of sternness that contradicted his chubby features. His complexion was fairer than most, except for his daughter's. Her face was painted porcelain white, with some blue markings near her eyes and on her cheeks.
Lady Gwylin sat stiff and tall without offering a single glance to the people on the roadway. A hat covered most of her dark hair, setting off her aristocratic cheekbones; her gown was a work of art, with embroidery, lacing, and pearled beads adorning the ivory fabric. Bentley was sure it cost more than his newfound friends could earn in a lifetime. Gwylin's chin was elevated and her eyes nearly shut—the very picture of arrogant perfection. Bentley had seen the same pious attitude in some of the Noble Knights.
Is this how the poor of Chessington looked at me? he wondered, feeling another flush of shame.
“Sir Bentley!” a young voice screamed with excitement from the other side of the road.
Bentley broke his gaze from the procession and looked across the roadway to see Anya, the little crippled girl from his Mercy Maiden venture. She lurched excitedly toward him. A thin, frail woman called to her from behind, but to no avail.
Bentley's heart thumped in his chest, for she was crossing the road right in front of Lord Kingsley's carriage.
“No, Anya!” He held up his hand, but that seemed to encourage her all the more. A big smile enlightened her face as she ran, oblivious to the
sixteen forceful hoofs that would soon pummel her to death.
The driver of the carriage made no attempt to restrain his team or turn aside. He only scowled. Bentley handed Nia to Anwen and rushed into the street to meet Anya, who was now directly in front of the approaching carriage. One of the horses whinnied in alarm as Anya turned to see her demise. She screamed, and Bentley lunged for her just as the first two horses came upon her. The crowd gasped and the horses reared up, spooked by Bentley's actions.
Bentley covered Anya with his body, and he felt the force of hoofs pound into the dirt all around them. Anya's panicked screams spooked the horses further, and Bentley tried to cradle her beneath his slightly raised torso. He knew that at any moment he would feel the crushing blow of a powerful hoof slam into his unprotected back.
The moment lingered long, and he heard the cries of Anya's mother mixed with the exclamations of hundreds of onlookers. But the sound of pounding hoofs finally diminished and was replaced by the sound of carriage wheels passing by on his left and right.
“Get out of the road, fool!” Bentley heard a man shout from above them.
He looked up and saw Lord Braith glaring down at him from atop his horse. He drew his sword. “You nearly upset Lord Kingsley's carriage. Out of the way, or I'll take off your head!”
Bentley scooped up Anya and took her to her mother, suppressing the urge to yank the arrogant brat from his horse. The crowd began to cheer Bentley for his heroic actions, but he was oblivious to the praise, for he was still enraged with Kingsley and his family.
“Pompous fools,” he muttered as he glared back at Kingsley, his son, and his daughter. He glanced once more at Lady Gwylin and saw her look briefly toward Anya, then turn her head up and away as if nothing had happened.
She truly is an ice princess, Bentley thought bitterly.
The rest of the procession passed by, and Bentley found himself surrounded by children and adults alike, thanking him for his deed. Anya's mother struggled toward Bentley, leaning on a long staff nearly as tall as Bentley. She reached for his hand.
