by Chuck Black
Demus smiled. “The Council of Knights asked me to discover the truth of your intentions, but I knew they were honest even before I saw you, for I knew your father well. He is a good man, and I believe in his heart he knows the truth.”
“Father always spoke very highly of you.” Bentley smiled briefly then lowered his gaze to the table as he thought of his parents. Were they now suffering for his actions?
Demus put a hand on his shoulder. “Seeking and discovering the truth always costs something, Bentley. But you must never forget—a pauper with the truth is better off than a wealthy man living under deception. Lucius, the Dark Knight, is the father of all deception in the kingdom, and he will stop at nothing to try and destroy the truth of the Prince.”
“But who is—?” Bentley began, then dropped the question. He wanted to know more but sensed that Demus was strained in his efforts to communicate so much in such a short time. He imagined that Demus had said and written more today than he had in months.
They settled into the cabin, and Bentley made his bed in the loft. After cutting firewood and eating an evening meal, Bentley ended the day with a hundred new thoughts to dwell upon. Every one of them brought him to the large oak tree in the city square in Chessington and the man who once hung there.
The voice of truth seemed to whisper louder than ever this night. What will you do with the Prince? it asked over and over.
The following morning Bentley and Demus sat down for breakfast.
“Sir Demus, why did we need to come this far from Chessington? Couldn't we have met much closer?”
“You don't realize how desperate Kifus is to destroy the Followers. His search for you will be extensive. Even this place may not be secluded enough.”
Demus took another small bite of his barley cake and a large drink of water to mix with it as he chewed. He swallowed carefully and looked up at Bentley.
“You are the son of a wealthy and respected Noble Knight. Kifus will stop at nothing to keep from creating another man like Sir Gavinaugh.”
“Sir Gavinaugh? You mean Sir Gavin? You've met with Sir Gavin?” Bentley asked.
Demus nodded. “He is called Sir Gavinaugh now. The Prince gave him a new name. I remember when he stood in my home and told me how foolish I was to believe in the Stranger. He said I would lose everything, and he was right.” A broad smile spread across his face. “Now Gavinaugh is turning the kingdom upside down for the cause of the Prince. Yet Arrethtrae still has not yet seen what mighty works could be done by one knight wholly committed to the Prince.”
Demus pointed a finger toward Bentley. “Kifus sees that potential in you, which is why he will be ruthless in hunting you down. But remember, Bentley, Kifus is just an ignorant pawn of one much more powerful than he. It is the Dark Knight and his Shadow Warriors you must be wary of. The real battle lies with them, and they are everywhere!”
After each discourse Bentley had with Demus, he felt more satisfied with the truth but less comfortable with his life. There was so much more to understand. As the days passed, Bentley loved the time he spent with Demus. His eyes were opened to a world of answers that put all of the chaos of the kingdom in order. They talked of the King, the Prince, and the knights of old; of the Dark Knight, Lucius; of his Shadow Warriors and his Arrethtraen lieutenants, the Vincero Knights.
With each story, Bentley found a sense of true purpose taking shape in his own heart. A passion to serve the King and the Prince welled up so mightily within his soul that ill circumstances could never quench it nor wrest it from his heart.
Bentley remained with Demus through the mild winter and cherished the wisdom and training of his mentor. On two occasions, Demus took Bentley to the haven at Thecia where he trained with and benefited from the brotherhood of knights there. Demus also seemed to enjoy the reprieve from the labor of daily communicating answers to the countless questions Bentley asked.
Much to Bentley's surprise, Demus also found opportunity to train him further with the sword. Demus had fashioned an iron “thumb” that he inserted into his right gauntlet and secured to his wrist with a leather strap. The curved shape allowed him to adequately grip various items, including his sword. Bentley initially held back on the strength of his cuts and slices until he realized that Demus had been able to compensate amazingly well. Bentley learned much from Sir Demus in the course of their training, for the man was a very skilled swordsman.
On a pristine evening of a beautiful spring day, Demus and Bentley paused their sparring to absorb the delightful sights and sounds that surrounded them. They stood on a lush, grassy ridge line as the beauty of the kingdom paraded by. The red and orange light from the setting sun danced off the clouds and painted the Boundary Mountains in an array of hues. It reminded Bentley of the sunsets he had once enjoyed from his terrace back home.
“Bentley, your skills are far beyond that of your age and experience,” Demus said in his halting way.
“Thank you, Sir Demus. You are an excellent tutor.”
Demus shook his head to the contrary. “I have only honed your skills a bit; most of your training was already accomplished.”
Bentley turned to look at Demus. He was staring off into the distance toward Holbrook. Bentley's respect and admiration for this man had grown tremendously, and he was grateful for these past months of mentoring.
“Sir Demus, I know that all you have told me is true. I have come to believe that this Stranger is indeed the Son of the King.” He hesitated. “I am ready to pledge my allegiance to the Prince.”
Bentley had given an oath to the order of the Noble Knights, and he knew that this would countermand that oath, for it was in opposition to and superseded by the supreme authority of the King. There would be no other oaths to take, and he understood the ramifications of this bold move.
Demus turned and smiled. “Then kneel.”
Bentley looked at him in surprise. “This can be done right here… by you?”
The older man nodded, smiling gently.
Bentley knelt, and Demus drew his sword.
“Do you believe that the Prince is the Son of the King? that He came to Arrethtrae and died that you might live? that He sits on the right hand of the King and will return one day to rule the land? Do you swear your allegiance to Him and to Him alone?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to uphold the Code and to live a life of truth, justice, and honor?”
Bentley could not help remembering the last oath he had taken, kneeling before Kifus. This time he did not hesitate nor question his future.
“I do!”
Demus placed the flat of his sword on Bentley's shoulder.
“I dub thee Sir Bentley, Knight of the Prince!”
Years of listening to the whispers of his heart and wrestling with the call of the Noble Knights came to that one simple act, and it changed everything for Bentley. He rose, and the two men embraced as brothers.
“I owe you much, my friend,” Bentley said.
Demus shook his head. “You owe me nothing, but you owe the Prince your life.”
Bentley thought about the Prince and became silent.
“What is it?” Demus asked.
“The Prince stripped Himself of His royal rights and privileges and became a pauper to save the people of Arrethtrae. It is hard to imagine such great… compassion for others. I was born a wealthy man and even now wear the garb of a nobleman. I can see that such wealth could keep many from following the Prince.”
“You speak the truth,” Demus said. “The comforts of this kingdom keep many from Him, especially the wealthy.”
Bentley looked out across the land as the remnant light of the sunset faded away. His eyes came to rest on Holbrook once more. In the dusk he could see the lighted lamps of the village and the castle.
Before becoming a Knight of the Prince, Bentley had wondered what mission he would be given if he decided to follow Him. But now he realized his mission was not as great as he had imagined, but one as lowl
y as the Prince Himself had chosen.
“I want to follow in the footsteps of the Prince,” Bentley said.
Demus looked at him. “Of course—that is what a Knight of the Prince always aspires to do.”
“No, Demus, I mean I want to become a pauper as He did. I want to live among those I am now charged to bring to the King through the Prince. How can I reach the common people of Arrethtrae if I have never been one?”
Demus put a hand on Bentley's shoulder. “It is a heart like yours which the King and His Son seek.”
Bentley took a deep breath and marveled at how much strength it took to choose to become poor. Could he do this? Did he have what it took to truly give up everything he knew in order to follow someone he had never actually met?
It was then that he realized that the Prince was not the Stranger, as the Noble Knights had called Him for years, for He had made Himself known to anyone who would listen. Rather, it was the Noble Knights who were strangers, for they would never loosen their grip on the power and wealth of their positions and join in the plight of the commoners who struggled around them. Even his beloved father and mother remained trapped in their home, walled off by fear—strangers to the truth.
“I want to know You, my Prince,” he whispered. “I want to follow You, no matter the cost. My heart is Yours, my life is Yours, my sword is Yours. Whatever happens, my Prince, please don't be a stranger to me.”
A PAUPER'S LIFE
Bentley felt the thunder in his feet before he heard it. At first he thought the dark clouds above were finally beckoning the rains to fall. But then he looked behind him just in time to see a contingent of mounted knights galloping down the road. He scrambled to get off the road, and they roared past him as if he wasn't there. Shame burned his face when he thought of the many times he had passed by peasants in just such a fashion.
He had been walking since early morning, traveling the road toward Holbrook with a small knapsack hanging from his shoulder. Demus had provided a coarse tunic, trousers, and cloth shoes that did little to protect his feet. The pebbles and cracks of the roadway bruised his soles, and he had to stop often to massage them. With every step, he missed his boots, tunic, armor, and belt—but most of all his sword. It had been such a part of him for the last six years that without it he felt awkward and vulnerable.
Small raindrops began to spit at his face, and his cloth shoes quickly became soaked as he passed the outlying farms of Holbrook. Here, Demus had told him, the growing season was just long enough to harvest two crops. The primary crops were corn, barley, and wheat, but most families supplemented their meager incomes with small vegetable gardens. Bentley was saddened to behold the careworn faces of the peasants working the fields.
He stopped by one gray-haired man who was weeding a plot near the road. “I'm looking for work, sir. Do you know of anyone willing to hire me?”
“Lord Kingsley's the only one who hires in these parts,” the man said. “His agents live in the village.” He gestured with his head toward Holbrook.
Bentley nodded his thanks and continued on toward the village. Before he'd gone but a few paces, the man spoke once more.
“I don't know where you've come from, but if I were you I'd return there. Work for Lord Kingsley and you'll never leave.”
Bentley turned to see that the man hadn't stopped his work.
“He'll own you and all you have,” he muttered, almost as if he were talking to himself.
Bentley pressed on. The rain became heavy, and the dirt road, rutted heavily by the oxcarts traveling to and from the village, melted into mud. Bentley had to step carefully to keep from slipping.
“Move aside!” shouted a man from behind Bentley. He was pulling on the harness of an ox with a full cart of vegetables and tools. But Bentley had nowhere to go. The roadway was narrow, bracketed by ditches on either side. And another cart was coming toward them.
Bentley stepped off the right side of the road onto the inclined bank of the ditch and nearly lost his footing. The man muttered a few curses beneath his breath as he passed. Bentley slipped and grabbed a handful of mud to keep from falling farther. He found a foothold and carefully stepped back onto the road, shaking the mud from his hands. He heard the man yell again, but this time with much more vehemence.
Bentley looked up to see another oxcart coming from the direction of Holbrook. A lanky peasant guided the cart, which seemed empty except for a woman and two children. The road was so narrow that the two carts would have a hard time passing.
The angry man cursed again and pulled harder on his beast without moving any closer to the edge of the road. The younger man guided his ox and cart to the left to avoid colliding wheels, but his cart began to slip into the ditch. The children screamed, and the mother made a grab to keep them from falling off. The angry man ignored them and continued toward Holbrook, waving his arms in the air and muttering to himself.
“Get off the cart!” the man yelled to his young family as he struggled to keep his beast on the road and his cart upright. The harder he tried, the farther the cart teetered toward the muddy ditch. The ox bellowed in protest.
“Jump, Meg!” the mother cried. The older girl jumped to the road and fell into the mud. Bentley ran to the cart and held his arms out to the mother who was clutching the littler girl. She hesitated just a moment, then handed the little girl to Bentley. He set her down on the ground and reached up for the woman. She grabbed his arms and jumped just as one wheel came off the ground and threatened to flip the whole cart.
Bentley caught her and set her safely onto the road. Without saying a word he went to help the man. He joined him in pulling on the beast's halter, but it wasn't enough.
“I'll push on the cart!” The man ran to the back of the cart, which by now was almost completely off the road. Bentley pulled hard as the man tried to push against the cart, but his feet just slipped in the muck. He pushed again and fell to one knee just as one of the ox's hind legs slipped off the edge of the road, sending the cart over on its side.
“Creighton!” the woman screamed as the cart tumbled over. Her husband fell backward into the ditch with the cart on top of him.
Bentley released his grip on the ox's halter and ran to the man called Creighton. He slid down the embankment to discover that each moment of this crisis brought further disaster. The wheel of the cart had pinned the man's leg, crushing it, and the side boards were pressing his face into the water. He was fighting with all his might to get his face out of the water for air.
Bentley straddled Creighton's body and struggled with all his might to lift the cart. It moved just enough for the man to lift his head and take a breath.
The woman was trying to free herself from the panicked children to come and help. “Get help!” Bentley told her through clenched teeth. She left the small girl in care of the elder one and disappeared.
Bentley's arms and legs began to shake. He couldn't hold the cart up any longer.
“Take a breath,” Bentley told Creighton, then slowly lowered the cart, pushing the man's head back into the water. Bentley shook his arms. “Help me!” he yelled, then grabbed the cart and lifted again.
Creighton emerged from the water, gasping for another breath. Bentley looked down between his strained arms and saw the man looking up into his eyes. He sputtered mud and water from his mouth as he begged, “Please… take care… of my family!”
Bentley's arms began to shake again. This time he weakened more quickly. Just as he was about to lower the cart again, another man slid down the ditch and reached for a corner of the cart. He was as young as Bentley, but a fair bit taller and twice as thick.
Creighton's wife was just behind him. She waded into the ditch and put her hands underneath her husband's head to hold it above the water.
“Can you hold the cart for a moment?” Bentley asked the newcomer.
“I think so,” he grunted.
Bentley released his grip on the cart and pulled on one of the loose side boards. After
a couple of attempts, it came free. He pushed it beneath the cart near Creighton's head and levered it upward. Together the two men lifted, and Creighton's wife pulled on his shoulders to free him from the cart. They were able to get his torso from beneath the cart, though his leg was still painfully pinned beneath the wheel.
Bentley moved his lever to the wheel, and the two men lifted again. After two attempts the man was free. Bentley and his helper leaned against the cart, breathing hard.
“Thank you.” Bentley held out his hand. “My name's Bentley.”
The burly fellow took it. “I'm Walsch.”
“I owe you my life.” Creighton looked up from the ground at Bentley and Walsch. His wife nodded with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Walsch elbowed Bentley. “We wouldn't let Kingsley take one of us out that way, would we, eh, Ben?”
“Not today,” Bentley said. “Let's see about getting this man home.”
It required two horses and four other men, but eventually they recovered Creighton's cart with minimal damage. They placed him on it and took him to his mud and straw cottage. Walsch hurried to Holbrook to fetch the bonesetter while Bentley stayed with the family.
The cottage had dirt floors, a simple kitchen, and a second room with straw as beds for the family. While they waited for Walsch to return with the bonesetter, Bentley discovered that Creighton's wife was named Anwen and the youngest girl was Nia. Anwen was a pleasant-looking woman not much older than Bentley. Her brown hair was pulled back in a braid, and though she looked frail, Bentley soon learned she was anything but.
Bentley knelt beside Creighton and lifted his pant leg to reveal a large purple lump on the inside of his left leg midway down his calf Anwen took a wet cloth and cleaned the swollen leg, while Creighton clenched his teeth against the pain. Sweat poured down his forehead, and Anwen swabbed his brow. He grabbed her hand and looked up at her.
“'Twill be all right,” he said reassuringly.
Anwen shook her head, her face grave. “How will we manage the crops and the animals?” she asked. “We're barely surviving as it is.”