by Chuck Black
Creighton pursed his lips and mirrored her concern. “Two weeks, my dear wife. Two weeks, and I will be in the field if it kills me.”
Anwen closed her eyes against the tears. “That's what I fear.”
Bentley watched helplessly, caught up in the world of their pain. He would never see the kingdom of Arrethtrae the same way again, for these peasants were not the dull gray background behind the opulent and colorful lives of the nobility. They were men, women, and children who worked, loved, laughed, and cried just like the wealthy. They just happened to be born on the straw bed of a cottage and not on the silky linens of a wealthy lord's castle.
“I will help you,” he said.
“But you have already helped us,” Creighton said. “I can't imagine what more you could do.”
“I can stay on and work your field for you,” Bentley said with a quick nod. “You'll have to teach me, for I don't have much experience. But I have a strong back and a willing heart.”
“But we cannot pay you,” Anwen protested.
“A straw bed and food to eat is payment enough.”
Creighton and Anwen looked at him, perplexed by his offer, not daring to believe it. Anwen's eyes filled with tears, and she held out her hand to Bentley. He took it, and she squeezed it as tears fell down her cheeks.
“The men are here!” Meg shouted as she ran into the room.
Setting Creighton's broken leg proved to be a significant challenge. Bentley was thankful for Walsch's strength once again as they worked to hold Creighton still during the ordeal. The pain was nearly unbearable for Creighton, but they were able to set the leg and splint it.
“You're fortunate the bone didn't pierce the skin, or it would have festered for sure,” the bonesetter said after tying the last bit of cloth on the splint. “Then I would have had to come back in a week to cut off the leg.” Anwen paid the man his fee, and he left. She tended to Creighton as Bentley talked briefly with Walsch outside the cottage. The rain had almost stopped.
Bentley enjoyed Walsch's charming perspective on life. His hair was blond and his face broad. His husky frame suited him well.
“Are they kin of yers?” Walsch asked.
“No.”
Walsch tilted his head. “And yer stayin’ on to hep 'em?”
Bentley winced and scratched his head. “It rather looks that way. I don't think he'll be doing much in his condition for a while.”
Walsch snorted. “Yer an odd one, that's fer sure.” He squinted at Bentley. “Yer not from these parts, are ye?”
Bentley hesitated. He hadn't prepared himself for this question. Finally he replied, “I'm from south of here.”
Walsch smiled. “A stranger y' be then.” He slapped him on the back.
“Tell me about Lord Kingsley Walsch.”
Walsch's smiled vanished. “Lord Kingsley's a powerful man. The entire village and all the farms pay half their crop or earnings t’ the lord in taxes.”
“Half?” Bentley was surprised any family could survive under such heavy taxation.
“Aye, half It matters not whether the season be good or bad. And if someone can't pay, Lord Kingsley's knights'll take a child, or a wife, or the man himself. 'Tain't right.” Walsch's countenance turned to anger. “But it weren't always so.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was once a peaceful land, and Lord Kingsley was a fair landlord. But eight years ago, the Lucrums started t’ come in and rob Holbrook an’ all the farms.”
“Who are the Lucrums?” Bentley asked.
“They're raiders from the Boundary Mountains. They have a sanctuary up there near a bottomless lake—an’ a fearsome people they be. The leader is the Ashen Knight, named for his pale horse and pale armor.” Walsch stopped and stared into the distance.
“You've seen him, Walsch?”
“Aye. Lord Kingsley could do nothing to stop ‘em until Sir Avarick came. He agreed t’ defend Holbrook in return for being Kingsley's first knight.”
“Seems like a good exchange.”
“For Lord Kingsley, aye…for the people, not so. Y'see, Kingsley's come t’ rely on Avarick for more than just protection. Avarick collects taxes and manages the whole region, and he's as cruel as the Ashen Knight. I fear we've traded us one devil for another!”
“Have the attacks stopped?” Bentley asked.
“No, but Avarick and his knights've been able t’ fend 'em off for the most part. With enough warnin’, the people retreat t’ the castle and are safe there.”
Walsch took a deep breath as if to clear bad air from his lungs. Then a smile lighted his broad face again. “'Tis a good thing we have another bloke to share in our good fortune, though, eh, Ben o’ the south?”
“Thanks for your help today.” Bentley offered his still-muddy hand.
“Twas nothin’.” Walsch took Bentley's hand. “But I think perhaps I'd best come and check on ye from time t’ time. Them hands of yers don't look much like farmin’ hands.” He looked at Bentley and raised an eyebrow.
Bentley gave him a crooked grin as Walsch turned to leave.
“Whoever ye are, Ben o’ the south, take care o’ yerself Good people are hard to find in this land.”
“And you take care, my large friend,” Bentley called after him.
“And you,” he said again quietly.
MAIDEN OF MERCY
Bentley joined Creighton, Anwen, and their children in a daily fight for survival…and quickly came to understand that his former perspective on poverty fell grossly short of reality. The food was scarce, the labor hard, the days long. With another mouth to feed and no advantage yet gained by Bentley's labor, their situation soon became dire.
Bentley's stomach howled in hunger throughout the day, and he knew that each of them was suffering similarly—though only little Nia voiced any complaints. Bentley tried to take less food than all of them, for he had more reserves.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, Bentley's thoughts were consumed with how he could help this family through this difficult time. Anwen had returned to the cottage earlier to tend to Creighton, who still suffered greatly. Bentley was a fair distance from both the cottage and the road that wound its way near it and the other farms when he saw a horse-drawn wagon come from around a knoll and on toward the cottage. The distance made it difficult to determine much, but Bentley could see the driver was slender of form. A bulkier figure sat on the wagon's open tailgate.
Bentley gathered his tools and headed to the cottage. He approached Meg and Nia in the vegetable garden, and they began to shout, “Mother! Mother! It's the Mercy Maiden!”
Anwen quickly exited the cottage and joined Meg and Nia as they looked toward the approaching wagon. The girls began to jump up and down with excitement. The wagon stopped before them, and Bentley now saw that the driver was a woman. He watched her step down from the wagon to greet Anwen. She knelt down to the girls, and they beamed with ear-to-ear smiles as she spoke to them.
The woman stood and faced Anwen once again.
“I am sorry t’ hear ‘bout yer husband's leg,” Bentley heard her say as he walked up. “Ye must be strugglin’ to make it.”
“It's been hard, miss,” Anwen replied. “Creighton won't be up for some time.”
The woman motioned to the large fellow at the back of her wagon. He lifted out a basket full of bread, potatoes, carrots, greens, and fresh fruit. Meg's and Nia's eyes widened as they looked at it.
“I'm hopin’ this'll hep ye get by till yer husband's whole agin,” the woman said as the man placed the basket at Anwen's feet. He stayed on one knee and motioned for Meg and Nia to come close to him. He lifted a handful of strawberries out of the basket and held them out to the girls.
“I've got a bag o’ meal fer ye too.”
Anwen put a hand to her face and covered her mouth, then reached for the woman and hugged her.
“Thank you, miss. Thank you!”
Bentley rounded the back of the wagon and stared in wonder at
the contents. It was packed with food, tools, shoes, clothing, and a variety of kitchen utensils.
The woman stepped back from Anwen's embrace. “Tis nothing, miss. I'll fetch the meal and then best be gittin on to others.” She turned around, nearly bumping into Bentley.
She looked surprised, and Bentley was too. The woman was young but extremely unkempt. She wore a drab russet dress with wooden shoes. Her black hair was a tangled mess, and her face was filthy. She opened her mouth and gasped, revealing a set of teeth that were blackened near her gums. Her expressive eyes were dark brown… and full of confusion.
Bentley raised his left eyebrow. “Hello,” he managed to say.
The young woman quickly closed her mouth and just stared at him. After working in the field all day, Bentley could imagine that his odor was not pleasant, but what he smelled coming from this woman overpowered his own.
She looked down at his leg and then turned to Anwen.
“I thought your husband's leg was—”
Anwen began to laugh. “No, miss, this is not my husband. This is Bentley. He's been kind enough to offer his help until Creighton is well again.”
The young woman looked back at Bentley. “Oh.”
Her large escort came and stood next to her, much like a bodyguard. The man was huge, even larger than Walsch. His bronze skin told of endless days of labor in the sun, as did his large leathery hands. Beads of sweat formed on his bald head, and he looked down at Bentley with expressionless eyes. Bentley was certain that if the woman pointed at him, the man would reach out and snap his neck, then be about his business.
The woman gazed at Bentley for a moment. Although her appearance and especially her odor repulsed him, something in her eyes seemed to counterbalance the rest of her. She turned to the wagon and touched the bag of meal. Bentley took a deep breath and stepped forward to help lift it out, but the large fellow pushed him aside and lifted it as though it were filled with straw. He set it near the basket at Anwen's feet.
The woman smiled briefly at Anwen and climbed back onto the wagon. The large fellow took his place on the tailgate of the wagon.
“Thank you, miss,” Anwen said again.
The woman smiled with her lips closed, nodded once, and then shook the reins to start the wagon moving.
“Who is she?” Bentley asked.
“That's the Mercy Maiden,” Meg mumbled around a mouthful of sweet strawberry. She and Nia waved vigorously at the departing wagon.
Bentley was confused and curious. “She gives help to everyone?”
“Mostly those who are in desperate need,” Anwen said.
“Is she from Holbrook?”
“No. They say she's from a large farm east of here, outside Kingsley's land. She doesn't talk much, and no one really knows much about her.” Anwen looked down at the basket of produce and the bag of meal. “Many families would have perished over the past years were it not for her.”
“And the large fellow?” Bentley asked.
Anwen shrugged. “He's always with her.”
“Some people say she's a ghost from Brimwood Forest,” Meg said with big eyes.
Bentley scratched his head. “Perhaps she needs some help.”
“I don't think she'll…” Anwen began, but Bentley had already started down the road after her.
“I'll be back before nightfall,” he shouted as he ran to catch up with the Mercy Maiden.
Bentley finally reached the slowly moving wagon. The large fellow looked at him blankly as Bentley jogged past. He continued his jaunt until he was walking at a fast pace beside the woman.
“Miss,” he said, and she nearly jumped from the wagon in surprise. “Would you like some help distributing these wares?”
She looked at him and shook her head vehemently to the contrary.
“I won't bother you, I promise. I just want to help the people as you do.” Bentley had been hoping to meet more of the people in the area. What better way than to join this strange duo on a mission of mercy?
The woman once again shook her head vehemently. Disappointed, Bentley slowed his gait and allowed the wagon to move ahead of him. As the wagon passed by him, he frowned, then spontaneously jumped onto the back gate beside the large fellow. Bentley cringed and waited for some repercussion, but the man didn't even look at him. The jostling caused the woman to turn around to see Bentley sitting there. She looked disgusted but pressed on toward the next farm in need.
“What's your name, miss?” he called up to her, but she didn't reply.
“She doesn't talk much, does she?” he asked his riding companion, but the man ignored him. “I'm Bentley.” He held out a hand of greeting. The man looked at him, nodded, and stared back toward the farm again.
“Won't do ye no good to talk t’ Parson neither,” the woman said over her shoulder. “He's deaf.”
“I see.” Bentley pulled back his hand.
They traveled until they came to another farm, where the wife of the farmer was extremely sick. The young woman left some fresh produce and herbs to treat her ailment. Another farm was run by a widowed woman with four children. Two were old enough to help work her allotment, but she looked as though life was tumbling over her like an avalanche. Bentley learned that this place was a common stop for the Mercy Maiden.
And so it continued through the afternoon and into the evening as they visited various farms of Holbrook. Bentley said little, and his odd companions eventually began letting him help deliver some of the goods.
On the last few stops they ended up in the village of Holbrook. The wagon came to the banks of the river and a dilapidated shack that could hardly be called a home. The young woman pulled back on the reins to stop her horse, then sat for a moment staring at the shack. Only one more basket of food remained in the wagon, tucked in just behind the drivers seat. When Bentley walked to the front of the wagon and knelt to pick it up, he saw that her eyes were moist.
“Who lives here?” he asked gently.
She bit her lip. “A little girl named Anya.” It was the only time she had talked to him other than giving instructions on what to give to the families.
She reached into the basket Bentley was holding and pulled out a crude doll made of wool and cotton stuffing, then dismounted the wagon. Parson stayed back with the wagon while Bentley carried the basket of food and walked with the Mercy Maiden to the door of the shack.
She gently knocked. Nobody answered, and she knocked again. Finally she pointed for Bentley to leave the basket at the foot of the door, and she returned the doll to the basket. They turned to leave, and when they reached the wagon, the door of the shack opened.
“Eirwyn!” a squeaky voice exclaimed.
Bentley turned to see a little girl of perhaps six years old. She was limping badly, for her right foot turned inward and did not seem to function properly. Her right hand also curled inward in a nearly unusable crippled position. But she ran as best she could with her arms outstretched. Her long, thin blond hair lifted like feathers behind her.
“Eirwyn, you came!” The little girl's eyes were bright blue and full of life. A little button nose was sprinkled with freckles, and her smile was higher on the left than on the right but conveyed a heartwarming exuberance.
The young woman knelt and captured Anya in her arms and hugged her. Bentley just looked at her wonderingly Eirwyn. What a beautiful name for a Maiden of Mercy.
“Yes, my little Anya, I came.” Eirwyn wiped another tear away. “How's yer ma today?”
Anya kept her arms on Eirwyn's shoulders as she looked in her eyes. “Not so good today. The doctor's inside trying to help.”
“I'll talk to 'im,” Eirwyn said. “This is Bentley. Will you stay here an’ talk to 'im for a bit?”
Anya looked past them at Parson, who was now checking on their horse and the riggings. She turned her crooked smile on Bentley. “Sure.”
Eirwyn went to the wagon first and retrieved a small pouch. Bentley heard coins jingle within as she took it to the shack.
Anya walked to Bentley and put out her left hand. “I'm Anya.”
Bentley knelt down and shook it. “I'm pleased to meet you, Princess Anya. I am Sir Bentley.”
Anya giggled. “I'm not a princess, and you're not a knight.”
“Well, you look like a princess to me, and since you're talking to me, I must be a knight.” Bentley gave a bow. “Tell me, little princess, do you like stories?”
Anya's eyes got big. “I love stories. Will you tell one?”
“Absolutely.” Bentley lifted Anya onto the back of the wagon. She squirmed in anticipation, finding just the right spot to settle in for a good listen.
“Once upon a time in a land far, far away,” Bentley began, “there lived a King.” He found a stick to swing about as a sword as he narrated and reenacted part of the King's story that he had heard as a child. Anya was mesmerized by the tale, and Bentley was so engrossed in his telling of it that he didn't realize Eirwyn had returned.
At the end, Anya tried to clap, and Eirwyn added to the applause. Although slightly embarrassed, Bentley bowed first to Anya and then to Eirwyn. At that, her clapping slowed, and her countenance dropped slightly.
“That was wonderful!” Anya exclaimed. “Will you tell me another?”
“Of course,” Bentley told her, “but not tonight. Next time I will tell you about a great Prince who came to save the people from the clutches of the Dark Knight!” he said with wide eyes. Anya giggled again.
“Come, little miss.” Eirwyn lifted her from the wagon. “I brought somethin’ special fer ye, and yer ma's askin’ fer ye.”
“Good-bye, Sir Bentley,” Anya said, and Eirwyn paused to look at him.
He grinned sheepishly “Good-bye, Princess Anya.”
“I like Bentley,” he heard the little girl say as Eirwyn carried her back into the shack. When she returned, Bentley offered a hand to help her into the wagon.
“I'm pleased to meet you… Eirwyn.”
She smiled, and he was once again repulsed by her rotten teeth. She allowed him to help her up. This time he sat next to her in the wagon. The odor had either diminished somewhat or he had grown accustomed to it. She guided the horse out of the village and back on the road toward Creighton's farm.