Fallen Knight

by Dana D'Angelo

  Edgar looked at him. And when he saw that Gareth wasn’t going to take the blade after all, he snorted. Throwing down his own broadsword, he raised his fists. “If you will not fight with a sword, then we will deal with this in another way.”

  Then almost without warning, Edgar’s fist flew out, connecting with Gareth’s jaw. The unexpected blow caused his head to spin, and his saliva spewed into the air. Another quick punch landed on his stomach. He doubled over, the last of his breath rushing out from his lungs.

  “That is for ruining my sister, bastard,” he said.

  Gareth cradled his stomach as he slumped to the ground.

  Edgar turned to the wide-eyed guards who watched them. “Take him to the castle gates and toss him out.” He made a move to leave, but at the last moment, he pivoted and faced Gareth once more. “If you ever come near my sister again,” he said, jabbing a threatening finger at him. “You will pay dearly with your life.” He flicked his hand in the air. “Get him out of my sight.”

  The guards grabbed Gareth roughly by the arms and dragged him out of the chamber and into the courtyard. The blow that Edgar had delivered left him disoriented, and he barely heard the clouds rumbling overhead. All he could feel was the intense pain that radiated from his jaw down to his stomach and then back up again.

  “Ho, Farmer!” one of the guards called out.

  A man on a horse and cart stopped abruptly.

  “Help me get this man onto the cart,” the guard said.

  “But, sire, I don’t have any room. My pigs —”

  “You will make room,” the second guard said. “Take him outside the castle walls, and dump him there.” He narrowed his eyes. “This is not a request.”

  “Aye, sire,” the farmer jumped off from his perch, and came to assist the two knights. With all three men grabbing him, Gareth was thrown forcefully into the cart, his head crashing into the wooden railing. The swine scattered, letting out high-pitched squeals as they protested the newcomer.

  Gareth groaned. Unable to move, he lay on straw that was laced with mud and excrement. The sky rumbled again and he felt rain drops begin to fall onto his face. Closing his eyes, he tried unsuccessfully to block out the snorting pigs and the squeaky wheels that seemed to catch every bump. Almost too soon, he heard the creaking of the drawbridge, and then the cart moving again. By the time they crossed the drawbridge, the rain came down harder, faster, pelting him almost as if punishing him for his foolish desire for happiness.

  The farmer stopped his horse and climbed into the cart. He pushed and pulled at him, all the while cursing at Gareth’s dead weight. Then with one final heave, he rolled him off the wooden contraption, leaving him at the side of the road. Of all the years of training to become someone significant, he was now reduced to wallowing in the mud.

  When he first became a knight, he had felt such great promise for the future. His brother Reuben commanded the royal guards, and King Edward respected him highly, as did everyone else under his command. His brother adhered to the codes of chivalry, and when Gareth received his knightly spurs, he joined Reuben in the royal garrison. It was at once a blessing, and a curse to have a great knight as a sibling, for his brother refused to treat him any different, and forced him to train just as hard as the rest of the men. So whatever esteem Gareth gained among his peers, it was done through his own merit. The lessons that Reuben instilled into him stuck, and he was ever mindful of the importance of a knight’s honor — to always help those in need, and to protect the weak.

  No doubt, it was Reuben’s sense of honor that led to his downfall. Gareth remembered that night clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The annual mid-summer tournament was less than a week away, and even after an arduous day of honing their skills in the training field, most of the knights were still charged with energy. Later when supper was finished and well after the king had retired with his queen, a handful of men decided to loiter in the great hall. Since Gareth still smarted over Rueben’s criticism about his lack of focus, he couldn’t wait to leave.

  Admittedly, Gareth did lose focus, but it was only for a second. As he and his horse charged toward the rotating target, he caught a flash of color. Turning his head to the right, he saw a pretty maiden watching him from the sidelines. It was rare for visitors to watch them train. And it was rarer still for those visitors to be female. By the time he managed to gather his wits, his timing was off, and his blunted lance struck the quintain at a bad angle. The sack of grains attached to the pole swung around quickly. Out of pure stubbornness, he clung to the horse and managed to barely stay on its back.

  Reuben ran over to him, and when he saw that Gareth was all right, he chided him in front of his peers. The laughter coming from the other knights stung Gareth’s ears, and he felt like the greenest of greenhorns. What made matters worse was that at supper he spied the young maiden sitting with the princess. When the girl saw him, she elbowed the princess and giggled. His cheeks burned hotter than coals. If God was kind, He would have opened up the floor, and allowed Gareth to fall through the fissure. Alas, no such miracle occurred, and he was forced to sit through the excruciating slow and uncomfortable repast.

  The servants started to bring out the chess boards and Gareth got up to leave.

  “Going so soon, brother?” Reuben smirked. “Perhaps you should stay, and play a game of chess. It might help teach you focus.”

  “I told you that I was distracted.” Gareth said, frowning.

  “And I told you that true knight never allows himself to get distracted.” Reuben set up the game pieces and gestured for him to sit down.

  He lowered himself back down on his seat. There were no more maidens to divert his attention, so if Rueben wanted to see him concentrate, then by God, he was going to show it to him. Pushing aside the knowledge that he had never won a game against his older brother, he hunkered down to play. The game was going well, and he actually had a chance to come out the victor. That was until he made one fatal mistake. His heart dropped to the floor, and he tried to breathe normally, praying that Reuben wouldn’t notice his gaff.

  But it was too much to ask.

  “Check,” Reuben said, smiling.

  Gareth let out a grunt. Folding his arms over the table, he lowered his head so that he was at eye level with the chess pieces.

  “I can still win,” he mumbled.

  “Of course you can,” Reuben said, his grin widening. “The chance is always there.”

  But just as he reached over to pick up a game piece, a blood-curdling scream sounded from the upper quarters.

  “What the hell was that?” Gareth asked, jerking his head up and looking over to the stairs that led up to the private apartments.

  “Whatever ‘tis, it cannot be good.” Rueben got up from his seat and picked up his sword that leaned against the trestle table. He looked over at the other men at the table. “Come,” he ordered.

  Then with the full knowledge that his men would follow him, he hurried toward the serpentine steps that led to the apartments. But before they were even able to climb the steps, a man in a full suit of grey armor came barreling down at them. And just when his brother was about to react, the anonymous knight thrust his sword into Ruben’s gut before slashing at Gareth and the three other men that accompanied them. The injured men fell like sacks of wheat.

  Gareth started to run after the knight, but then he saw Rueben lying on the ground, holding his belly. He tossed his sword to the ground and knelt beside his brother. “Rueben, are you all right?”

  “My stomach…” he gasped, pressing his hands to his mid-section.

  Looking down, Gareth noticed for the first time, the red seeping through the lower part of his brother’s tunic. Holding back his fear, he lifted the tunic and stared at the gaping wound.

  “I need help!” he hollered, his voice filled with panic and barely concealed horror. The other three guards were on the ground, groaning at the injuries that they sustained. Looking frantically around him, he saw
a servant cowering underneath one of the trestle tables. “You,” he screamed. “Get the Healer!”

  As the servant burst from his hiding place and raced out of the great hall, Gareth unsheathed the dagger from his belt and cut a strip of material from his brother’s shirt. Bunching the fabric together, he crushed it to the wound, fighting to stem the flow of blood.

  Reuben let out a low, incoherent moan.

  Gareth gathered his brother in one arm while he pressed the fabric tightly to the gash. “Do not fret, brother, help will arrive soon.” He tried to keep the tremor of fear out of his voice, but he failed miserably. The color had drained from Rueben’s face, leaving a grey, deathly pallor. Gareth shook his head in an attempt to get rid of the fear that started to grip him.

  “Why the hell is the Healer taking so long?” he demanded.

  “Gareth,” Rueben said, grasping the sleeve of his tunic and pulling him closer. “I’m not going to make it.” He let out a cough and moaned when the action caused a fresh amount of blood to seep through the fabric.

  “You’re going to make it,” he said stubbornly.

  His brother shook his head weakly. “I…fear…”

  “You cannot die,” he said, his voice broken and raw. “You cannot!”

  “Find out what the grey knight did…woman…screaming…”

  Gareth’s grip tightened on Reuben’s shoulder, and he fought hard not to shake him, to stop the life from seeping out of his body. But his efforts were in vain, for he possessed no power to stop the angel of death from stealing away his brother. After what felt like hours, Rueben’s eyelids fluttered closed, his eyelashes dark against his pale skin. And then he took in one final breath, allowing the air out in a slow sigh before his large body slackened in Gareth’s arms.

  “Nay!” he shouted. “Rueben!” He rested his forehead on his brother’s chest. “Come back!” Tears escaped from the corner of his eyes even though he fought valiantly to hold them back. “Don’t leave me here alone…”

  But it was too late. And when all his movements stilled, an anguished sob erupted from Gareth’s chest, a sob that echoed in his soul. His beloved older brother was gone. Forever.

  He didn’t know how long he stayed there, rocking Rueben in his arms. He didn’t even know when the tears had dried up, or when the hatred began to surge through his body. All he knew was that he had to find the killer.

  When a hand touched his shoulder, he glanced up, and through the curtain of pain and rage, he saw Sir Jonathan d’Abelard, one of King Edward’s first-rate knights looking down at him. The knight was not much older than Gareth, but the man had already served the king well, and had proven his worth. His hands were covered with blood, and there was despair in the knight’s eyes, a despair which he shared. Gareth dropped his head to his chest, not wanting to engage in conversation with the knight. At one time, he would have been thrilled to have a knight of such caliber pay attention to him. But not now. Not with Rueben’s body growing cold in his arms.

  “We will provide a decent burial for Sir Rueben,” Jonathan said tiredly. “That is the least that he deserves.”

  “Nay,” Gareth said, his voice hardening. He looked up. “What he deserves is to be avenged.”

  Although the expression on the knight’s face was grim, his blood-shot eyes stared at Gareth, considering his words.

  “He killed Lady Amelia,” Jonathan said finally. “I want to see this Grey Knight hanged for what he did to my betrothed.” He fell silent, and the only sounds that could be heard was the shuffling of feet as the servants and guards gathered around them. “The bastard is long gone,” he clenched his fists and blinked rapidly, “I don’t know who he is, or where to search for him, but mark my word, I will find him.”

  “Then I will help you find him, sire,” Gareth said, his voice hollow.

  Over the span of almost ten years, the Grey Knight continued to cause pain and destruction to his unsuspecting victims. Then finally, Gareth’s prayers were answered, and the killer was within his clutches. He had volunteered to take the Grey Knight to the royal courts, although he wanted to finish the deed himself and dispatch the bastard. Consequently war raged from within, and he began to drink heavily.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, sire?” Derrik D’Evant asked.

  “Nay, you can never have enough. Drinking makes you forget about the past.” And tame the thoughts of vengeance.

  Derrik looked at him doubtfully. But he turned his attention to the small pot sitting over their makeshift cooking fire. He threw pieces of dried fish and mushrooms into the pot and gave it a quick stir with his wooden ladle. Lifting the spoon, he offered Gareth a sip of the thin soup. Gareth shook his head and leaned his head on the tree behind him. He took another swig from his flask. In the next town they stopped at, he would need to replenish his supply of spirits.

  A rustling sounded at the other end of the camp, and Derrik glanced over at the prisoner. Raulf stared back at him, a pained expression on his face.

  “Do you think we should let him have a bowl of this soup?” Derrik said.

  “Nay, let him starve.”

  “I don’t want your food,” Raulf called out. “Please, I need to piss.”

  “We should let him relieve himself.” Derrik set the spoon aside.

  He shrugged, and tipped the flask to his lips. His job was not to make the prisoner’s life comfortable. “It doesn’t matter to me if the bastard pisses in his braies,” he said flatly.

  “We rode for many hours,” Derrik said, getting up and brushing the dirt from his clothing. “He has a reasonable request.”

  Gareth made a sound through his nose and narrowed his gaze at the prisoner. For years, he had chased after this man, and now that he had him under his control, the mere sight of him made him feel sick. Derrik was too green and ideal, too sympathetic and caring — all the qualities that Gareth had once possessed.

  The young knight walked over to Raulf and crouched down to untie the rope around the prisoner’s legs. Derrik was so focused on his task that he was surprised when a leg kicked out at him. It crashed against the side of his head, knocking him against a tree. Before Gareth had a chance to react, the prisoner jumped up and raced into the darkened woods.

  Gareth let out a curse and tossing the flask aside, he ran after the man. As his feet dragged heavily through the thicket, one foot became tangled on a tree root. He stumbled and almost fell on his face. Blindly, his hand reached for a tree branch, and he was able to steady himself. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his back. For the first time he regretted that he had been drinking. Still, the sound of crashing feet echoed not too far off in the distance. The prisoner was an idiot if he thought he could get very far, especially in this rocky, uneven terrain.

  Following the sounds, Gareth paused when a cry echoed in the forest stillness. He hurried his footsteps, going as fast as the terrain would allow. And when he got to the area where he thought he heard the scream, he suddenly understood what had happened. He picked his way carefully to the edge of the cliff, and looked down the steep incline. For a moment, he felt elated at seeing Raulf at the bottom of the rock face, one leg twisted in an awkward angle. But then the miscreant moved. And the elation Gareth felt evaporated instantly into the humid air. The bastard was still alive. Slowly, he made his way down the slope.

  “My bloody leg is broken!” Raulf said as Gareth approached him. His face contorted with pain and he closed his eyes, whimpering as if he was an injured hound caught in a fox trap.

  “I should break your other leg as well,” he said, feeling no sympathy. Raulf had killed too many people. And now his injury was payback for the crimes he committed.

  “Gareth!” Derrik shouted from the top of the cliff.

  But Gareth barely heard the young knight. He pinned his gaze on the man on the ground. “You killed my brother,” he said, his voice low.

  Even though the murder occurred years ago, the pain and loss was as raw as if it had happened only moment
s before.

  Raulf stopped his whimpering long enough to look at Gareth with hate spitting from his eyes. “I killed a lot of people; I’ll admit it,” he rasped. “Maybe your brother was one of them. I don’t know. I don’t care.”

  “You bastard,” Gareth spat. His hand went to the dagger at his belt.

  “You’re not telling me anything new,” Raulf said, his tone sharp and sarcastic, as if the insult momentarily made him forget his injury. “I already know that I’m baseborn.”

  “I should kill you for what you’ve done,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” the prisoner countered, and even though his face was screwed up in pain, he still managed to sneer. Gareth slid the knife out from out of its sheath. Raulf leaned back, tilting his face to the sky and didn’t notice his subtle movement. “I am the king’s prisoner now,” he continued. “I overheard your vow to take me to the king. Murder me now, and all will know that your word has the weight of air.”

  “Do you think I care about what others think?” he demanded, grabbing Raulf by the collar and shaking him.

  Raulf’s eyes widened, recognizing the murderous intent in Gareth’s glare. “Nay,” he said, his voice low, pleading, desperate. “Please, do not kill me. I need my trial first.”

  The fear in his eyes was real. This knowledge alone should have gratified Gareth, but it wasn’t enough. The knife glinted in his hand. And then as quick as lightning, he thrust the weapon forward, twisting, plunging into the other man’s soft flesh.

  Raulf screamed and clutched at the dagger lodged in his chest.

  Gareth leaned forward and hissed, “That was for my brother.”

  Then placing a booted foot on Raulf’s shoulder, he yanked out the blade. The prisoner’s body began to jerk before it gave one more violent twitch and became lifeless. Gareth dropped the dagger to the ground as if the handle burned him. Lifting his hand up, he stared at the blood stains. A cold sweat ran down his back. He just murdered a defenseless man, and worst of all, he couldn’t claim that he was drunk. This was not the action of an honorable knight. How was he going to explain that he had taken matters into his own hands and killed the king’s prisoner? He let out a slow breath. If he was truly honest with himself, he never had any real intentions of escorting Raulf to the royal court in the first place. He had meant to kill the Grey Knight. And with that deed completed, he had become a murderer. And as a murderer he would face a trial by ordeal where God alone would determine his guilt or innocence…