Sir Bentley and Holbrook Court

by Chuck Black

  The concussion on his sword carried on to Bentley's left spaulder and slammed into his helmet. Bentley careened to the right, scrambling in vain to keep his footing, then crashed to the ground.

  He knew what would happen next. In seconds, he would feel the steel of his enemy's sword pierce his armor and then his chest. He lifted his sword for protection against the vertical slice, but the edge of the warrior's blade burst through his resistance and into his breastplate. The impact of the blow on his body seemed to force the last of his strength from him. His end was near.

  Bentley froze as the warrior lifted his sword high above him for a final downward thrust. His physical exhaustion did not diminish his fear of death in the least. But just as the tip of the warriors sword began its plummet, Bentley heard an unfamiliar yell and watched a wide arcing blade slice across his enemy's torso from behind.

  Screaming in pain and frustration, the warrior recoiled and turned on his unknown assailant. Bentley's strength immediately returned, and he rolled away, quickly finding his feet. The warrior was now heavily engaged with a new adversary, one Bentley had never seen before.

  Bentley chanced a quick glance about him and realized that four other knights had joined their cause against these massive warriors of destruction. Another glance filled him with shock as he recognized their insignia.

  Followers!

  The newcomers bore the unmistakable mark of the Stranger. This was the enemy Bentley and his comrades had set out that morning to engage. Yet these men were fighting to save their lives.

  Bentley brought his sword to bear along with his unexpected ally against the dark warrior, who was now wounded and searching for an avenue of retreat. Together, they forced the warrior into flight and joined the remaining knights in vanquishing their foes.

  When the tips of the swords slowly settled to grassy harbors of rest, only one man had fallen. Bentley and another Noble Knight went to him and began removing his breastplate, for the wound was serious. The other men stood breathing heavily as the rush within their bodies subsided.

  Bentley looked up in gratitude toward the man who had wielded sword to help him. “Thank you for your help. We've never faced such men before.”

  The Follower nodded in the direction the enemy had fled. “We have. They are enemies of the King.”

  “As are ye,” came York's voice from behind. “Drop yer swords.”

  Bentley looked up incredulously. “But these men—”

  “—are our enemies,” York repeated. “They'll be imprisoned.”

  The four Followers looked stunned, then slowly stepped back and away once they determined the burly knight was not bluffing.

  Bentley jumped to his feet. “They just saved our lives!”

  “Then they be fools as well,” York spat. “Disarm them!”

  The other knights looked at one another and then at Bentley. Bentley met their eyes, then knelt back down to his fallen comrade. The delay allowed the Followers to separate themselves, and they ran into the trees of the valley.

  “After them!” York commanded.

  “Sir!” one of the older knights exclaimed. “Nordan is down and needs immediate treatment. We either help him, or we chase the Followers and let him die—you choose!”

  York's eyes burned with fury, and in that moment Bentley fully discerned how deep York's contention with the Followers lay.

  It was a moment that set his mind on a different course.

  THE METTLE

  OF A MAN

  Bentley stepped onto the terrace and sat on the decorative stone rail of his family's manor. He looked out over the entire southern half of Chessington—a breathtaking view. The setting sun glimmered off the Great Sea in the distance, its fiery colors reflecting the autumn splendor of the wooded areas that bounded the city. Bentley thought it all looked like some splendidly painted canvas. This was his favorite place to come and think.

  Although Bentley had many friends, he often preferred to be alone. Their infatuation with frivolous parties and girls mostly annoyed him. He often felt peculiar and wondered if any of his friends ever had thoughts like his—thoughts about purpose, adventure, truth, the King, and… this mysterious Stranger who seemed to be tearing the kingdom apart.

  He had always thought his destiny was to follow in his father's footsteps. Besides serving as a Noble Knight, Sir Barrington ran a prosperous trading business. His success as both a Noble Knight and an honest merchant had won him the respect of the entire city. Bentley was quickly learning his father's trade and had discovered that he too had a gift for turning opportunity into honest profit. But such success was far from Bentley's first priority—thanks to his parents’ hard work and example.

  Thirty years ago, Barrington had married Lady Deonne, a lovely young woman from another prominent Chessington family. But for years, in spite of all their wealth and social standing, life had withheld from them what they wanted most—children. Their deep love for each other hadn't seemed complete until Bentley was born. In time they had come to see his delayed arrival as a blessing, for they had watched many of Barrington's fellow knights allow the prestige and power of their position to ruin their sons’ and daughters’ potential. Barrington and Deonne were determined not to let that happen with Bentley. Raising a young man of integrity, unspoiled by affluence, had been their mutual goal. And while Bentley had occasionally chafed at their discipline, he now understood they had given him the gift of freedom—the freedom to be his own man.

  If he could just figure out where that freedom was taking him…

  “Have you ever wondered how something so beautiful could exist?” Lady Deonne's soft voice floated from the terrace doors behind him.

  Bentley stood and took a deep breath, as if to fill his mind and soul with the peace of the moment. “All the time,” he answered without taking his eyes from the serene cityscape.

  Lady Deonne walked up behind Bentley and put her arm around his waist. Bentley placed an arm around his mother. Her dark brown hair was slowly yielding to wisps of white. She had given Bentley his bright blue eyes and the gentle curls in his sandy hair. His square jaw and broad shoulders were gifts of his father.

  “You know, son, moments like these are most appreciated with a beautiful young lady beside you.”

  “That's fortunate.” Bentley smiled at his mother. “I have one right here.”

  Deonne laughed and gently jabbed his ribs. “You know what I mean. Lady Fione and I were talking the other day—”

  “Mother, I am not interested in Merivale.”

  “Don't you think she's beautiful?”

  “Of course, but I… I have other things to do. Besides, I don't think someone like her would be interested in me.”

  “Why in the kingdom not?” Deonne leaned away from Bentley to look into his eyes.

  “Because she's so… so… pretty.”

  Deonne laughed again and put her hand to her son's chin. “Have you looked in a glass lately, son?”

  Bentley shook his head. He walked to the corner of the terrace and lifted his foot onto a marble bench. The sun was nearly set, but the purple and orange colors dancing off the evening clouds were brighter than ever, and the beauty drew him once again to thoughts loftier than romance.

  “What's all of this for?” he asked his mother.

  “All of what for?”

  “This.” He motioned to the manor behind him, then to Chessington, the Great Sea, and beyond. “Am I here simply to be a Noble Knight, chase radical peasants about, marry some maiden, accumulate wealth, and die an old man in Chessington? Is that really what life is all about?”

  Deonne was silent. Bentley didn't often express such thoughts out loud, but recently he had seemed overwhelmed with them.

  “I'm sorry, Mother.” Bentley turned to face her. “You and Father have given me everything a young man could ever hope for, and I am so grateful to you both. It just feels like there's something bigger out there. Something… purposeful. And I—”

  “Her
e you two are.” Barrington strode out to join them on the terrace. “I should have known my two dreamers would be on the terrace with the sunset.”

  “You're just in time, darling.” Deonne walked to her husband and gave him a quick kiss. “I think our son has some questions for you. I need to see to the servants.” She smiled sweetly over her shoulder as she exited the terrace.

  Barrington walked to Bentley and looked out over the stunning scenery. “Magnificent!”

  Bentley just nodded.

  Barrington sat beside him on the rail. “What's on your mind, son?”

  Bentley looked at his father. “Tell me about the Stranger, Father.”

  Barrington gazed at his son and then out to the Great Sea in the distance.

  “We have never really spoken of Him, and yet my whole mission now as a Noble Knight is to eliminate His Followers. I need to know, Father. You have taught me to be a man of honor, yet I am being asked to imprison and possibly kill men and women for reasons I don't know or understand. The closer I come in contact with these Followers, the more difficult I find it to carry out my mission.”

  Barrington gazed at his son, and his countenance of grave concern troubled Bentley further.

  “I've heard Kifus and York speak of the great danger these people pose to the kingdom. But for the life of me, I cannot see it. They never attack us, just defend themselves against us. I've never seen them steal, nor rob, nor treat anyone unjustly, and they seem to do good works among the sick and the poor.”

  Barrington sighed. “It's complicated, son. There are many perspectives to consider.”

  “But what of Sir Gavin, Sir Demus, and the others?” Bentley could not restrain the intensity with which he spoke. “What of you, Father?”

  Barrington's eyes widened in surprise.

  Bentley wondered if he had offended the older man, but there was no turning back now. He spoke quietly but intently through the falling darkness. “I have seen the doubt in my own heart also in the eyes of my father, a man who has taught me to seek the truth.” Barrington winced as his son continued. “I cannot silence the voice that keeps calling my name. I believe it to be the voice of truth.”

  Barrington could take no more. He stood and paced to the opposite side of the terrace. After a long silence he turned toward Bentley. “I watched them question the Stranger,” he said quietly. “I watched as they executed Him and felt my soul tear in two. I watched men greater than I sacrifice everything to follow Him.” Barrington's eyes glistened.

  “I remember. I was just a boy and you tried to keep me from it all, but my friends told me of it. And I saw that it changed you.”

  “It did,” Barrington said solemnly.

  “I didn't know what to believe then, and I still don't.”

  Barrington gazed deep into his son's eyes. “Nor do I, son.”

  Bentley looked out to where the last edge of the setting sun hovered on the watery horizon. “These Followers have a passion beyond what I see in the Noble Knights, and I can hardly bring myself to fight them.”

  Barrington stared hard at Bentley. “Consider your heart carefully, son, for there is much to lose. Don't forget that we took an oath.”

  “And what shall be more justly considered, the oath of a man or the truth of a King?” Bentley paused. “What if the Stranger really was—?”

  “I'd rather you not finish that question.” Barrington held up his hand. “Though we are father and son, still, it borders on treason.” Barrington's hard stare eased, and a smile crossed his lips. He slowly nodded his head. “You have truly become a knight who is noble, and I am proud. The answer to that question will surely test the mettle of a man.”

  Barrington put his arm around his son's shoulder, and the two men left the terrace to join Lady Deonne. Bentley had discovered no answers, but strangely he felt better… at least for a time.

  Later, in the still of the night, Bentley heard his name called once again.

  AN ACT OF

  TREASON

  “Kill them, Bentley!”

  Bentley stood between York and two Followers he had cornered and disarmed. His sword felt heavy in his hand, as did his heart in his chest.

  “For what crime?”

  “Do not question me!” York's face became red with anger. “I gave you an order, and you will follow it!”

  Bentley turned part way around to face York, who was now striding briskly toward them. “For what crime?” Bentley repeated, his determination bolstered by York's absurd order.

  York's voice was harsh. “Step aside or I'll cut you down with them!”

  “No!” Bentley hesitated just an instant before raising his sword and turning to fully face York, knowing that the action would bring dire consequences in one form or another. His back was now to the two Followers, but he was no longer concerned about their actions toward him. The real threat came from his own mentor.

  York hesitated, his eyes wide, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard and seen. He yelled, and two swords of the Noble Knights collided. York was experienced and strong, but Bentley was young and quick. He had learned York's swordsman skills well and was able to defend against each cut and slice. What was different this time was the strength with which they came.

  At first Bentley was preoccupied with simply surviving the fight. But as he adjusted to York's intensity, Bentley began to consider what was happening and why.

  Everything his father had taught him about true knighthood was being tested at this very moment. Everything he had thought and considered over the past weeks was shifting into place. In an instant, he came to understand that York's response and fight were efforts of sheer desperation to kill not just the Followers, but the truth.

  The Noble Knights had killed the Stranger, but His message lived on.

  They had imprisoned the Followers, but His message lived on.

  They had killed the Followers, but His message lived on.

  Only truth could be this resilient. As of yet, Bentley could find no contradiction in what he'd seen and heard… only noble pursuit.

  York brought a wide powerful slice from the left. Bentley deflected it and countered with his own. York parried and made a quick thrust that sliced through Bentley's tunic just beneath his left arm but met no flesh. Bentley slammed his sword downward on York's to keep it from wounding him on the retraction. He immediately followed with a diagonal slice across York's sword arm that met its mark.

  York screamed as the razor edge of Bentley's sword sliced across his upper arm. His sword clanged as it hit the cobblestones beneath.

  Bentley stood panting, momentarily stunned. Three other Noble Knights ran toward them.

  “Traitor!” York screamed, covering the gash with his left hand. “Your days as a Noble Knight are over!”

  Bentley stepped backward, wondering what he was supposed to do next.

  “Come!” Bentley felt a tug at his tunic. He turned to see one of the two Followers. The man looked anxiously toward the approaching knights.

  “Quickly!” The man pulled again on Bentley's tunic and took a few steps toward the open alleyway where his companion was now waving for them.

  Bentley half stumbled in their direction, still numb from the fight.

  “You're a dead man, Bentley!” York yelled from behind him.

  Bentley began to run, knowing he could never go back. No one would defend him against York, especially Lord Kifus, who believed the Followers were slowly destroying the order of the Noble Knights.

  Bentley followed the two men through streets and alleyways; they stopped at the back door of a candle maker's shop. The three men were breathing hard. One of the Followers looked up and down the alley searching for their pursuers. He opened the door. “Inside.”

  Bentley hesitated. What if I discover these Followers are truly madmen?

  He sucked in a breath, then crossed the threshold into a jumbled storeroom.

  “Thank you for saving our lives,” said the man who had tugged on Bentley
's tunic. “I am Esmond, and this is Trae.”

  The one named Trae nodded slightly but glared hard at Bentley with dark brown eyes. He grabbed Esmond's arm and pulled him off to one side of the room. They conversed in agitated whispers, at last returning to where Bentley stood.

  “You are Sir Bentley,” Esmond stated.

  “Yes.”

  “Trae here is concerned about your true intentions. There is much at risk if we believe you.”

  “Then we have something in common. I am also concerned about my intentions, for I know not what they are, and I have risked much already.” Bentley began to shake his head as the reality of his actions fully gripped him.

  “What then shall we do?” Esmond walked away a few steps, pondering what course they should take.

  “We can't take him to the haven.” Trae nodded at Bentley “No offense.”

  “None taken. I understand your concern. I must get to my father.”

  “Why?” Trae asked. “Isn't he a Noble Knight?”

  “Yes, but… I just need to see him.”

  Esmond walked back to Bentley. “You shouldn't go home. That is the first place they will look for you.”

  “Perhaps, but it is a risk I must take. He and my mother deserve to know what has happened.”

  “What will you do then?”

  Esmond's question fell heavily upon Bentley's heart, for it was a question that asked so much more. And he had no idea what the answer was.

  Bentley sought Esmond's eyes. “Is He real?” They were words he had pondered in his heart for years and dared not ask a soul. The answer to this simple question was the substance of all purpose and existence in life, and he finally knew it. It was why he had risked everything and was standing before these Followers this very moment.

  Esmond's countenance slowly illumined with a smile that spoke his heart. He turned to look at his friend, and even Traes countenance had softened. Esmond looked back at Bentley. “A Noble Knight who seeks the truth—'tis a rarity. Listen, I have an idea, but we must move quickly. First I must speak to the council. Trae, will you take him to his father?”