by Chuck Black
Kingsley was deep in thought. “I must think on what you have said. Perhaps you will rob me of yet another nights sleep, and we shall be even.”
“Only if my head has a floor to rest upon instead of the splintered wood of the stocks,” Bentley replied with a smile.
Kingsley returned the smile. “Guard, put him in a cell.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Over the course of the following days, Lord Kingsley continued to visit Bentley—to Sir Avarick's extreme agitation. By the sixth day, Kingsley allowed Bentley to stroll with him through one of the gardens as they talked. Bentley knew that Kingsley's sole motivation was the further accumulation of wealth, but Bentley also knew that his suggestions had the potential of bringing relief to the people, so he wanted to keep the lord's ear. To that end, he also gave Kingsley counsel on how to increase his profits in trading his goods with neighboring regions.
Kingsley's first application of Bentley's counsel on trade pleased him by yielding a nice profit. In regard to the peasants, however, Kingsley was reluctant to change his ways. He considered Bentley's proposition too great a risk, at least for the time being. Sir Avarick vehemently opposed all of Bentley's counsel and found opportunity to threaten him when Kingsley was not around. Still, Kingsley became fond of Bentley and by the end of the second week, he was removed from the prison cell and given guest quarters in one of the guest halls.
As the days passed, Bentley's most earnest concern was Anya. Having gained some measure of freedom, Bentley entreated one of the servants to find a way to get a message to Walsch to find out if she was all right.
“Do not forget, you are still my prisoner for another week,” Kingsley said one afternoon after a long discussion about which goods brought the greatest profits. But then he invited Bentley to dinner that evening.
Bentley was allowed to bathe and was given some appropriate clothing to attend the evening meal. He had to admit that it felt wonderful to be clean and dressed in clothes that fit well. He looked like a nobleman once again—or at least like a prosperous merchant's son.
He was escorted to the dining hall. When he entered, Kingsley Braith, Gwylin, and Sir Avarick were already seated.
Evidently his invitation was a surprise to everyone there except Lord Kingsley. Lady Gwylin's mouth opened as though she were going to speak, but instead she just stared in disbelief. Bentley gazed back at her, experiencing a strange sense that he had been here before.
Avarick stood from his chair, as did Braith. “What is the meaning of this?” Avarick demanded.
“Bentley is our guest tonight.” Kingsley motioned for him to be seated.
Avarick slammed his hand down on the table. “I will not eat a meal with a peasant who has insulted Holbrook Court by his insolence, rebellion, and foolish babbling.”
“Bentley is now my economic advisor,” Kingsley said forcefully “and he is invited to eat this meal with us.”
“I am your advisor,” spat Avarick. “I made you into the powerful lord that you are today This… this… peasant has beguiled you.”
“You have done well in protecting my castle and my lands, Sir Avarick, but Bentley has already proven himself in his counsel on trade. I will consider his counsel in other economic affairs as well.”
Avarick kicked his chair away from himself, and it careened backward until it toppled to the floor. He walked straight to Bentley and glared at him. He was a powerful warrior, and Bentley felt small next to him. Avarick's hand closed around the hilt of his sword. His voice seethed with hatred as he spoke only loudly enough for Bentley to hear.
“By weeks end you will leave or I will kill you!” Still seething, Avarick left the hall.
“Father, really… a peasant at our table?” Braith walked past Bentley with a sneer on his face and exited the hall behind Avarick.
“Well then,” Kingsley said with a forced grin, “I guess it will be just the three of us.”
Gwylin looked fiercely at her father and then rose from the table as well and exited through a different doorway. She didn't look at Bentley.
“Or two,” Kingsley said. “Come, Bentley, sit. Do not let their foul mood spoil the meal.”
They enjoyed a grand meal of six courses and talked at length about the financial gain Kingsley could attain. Bentley even talked of the Prince and probed to discover if Kingsley could be swayed to lighten the burden of his subjects simply out of mercy or kindness. But unless his counsel could assure Kingsley of further accumulation of wealth, he would have nothing to do with it.
Bentley concluded that Kingsley was as shrewd in the treatment of his peasants as he was in the treatment of his money. If he had to spend some to gain more, he would do it in an instant, but he would do nothing out of simple kindness.
This disheartened Bentley greatly until he remembered something Demus had taught him—that it is the Prince who brings true change to the hearts of men. Such a change in Kingsley would take time, but perhaps Bentley could begin to plant the seeds of truth in the heart of this greedy lord—seeds that would one day grow into genuine compassion.
Bentley was also cognizant of the fact that he now had an enemy—a powerful one. Because of Kingsley's favor, Bentley still felt that Avarick wouldn't dare harm him in the castle lord's presence. However, that left many hours of the day and every hour of the night during which he would be vulnerable to the whims of this threatening adversary.
He was quickly gaining an understanding of the relationship between this mighty warrior and Kingsley. If Avarick did not exaggerate his role in garnering Kingsley's wealth and power for him in the land, then Bentley understood why Kingsley allowed what could easily be interpreted as insolence toward him as lord of Holbrook Court. Avarick commanded a force of men for Kingsley that included twenty-five of his original warriors, fifty lesser knights, and another two hundred guards. Bentley was sure that many would do the bidding of Avarick in an instant, perhaps even if it went against Kingsley's wishes.
After just one night, Bentley was disgusted with the intricate politics of the court—politics that seemed even to splinter family bonds.
He couldn't wait to get away from Holbrook Castle.
THE WATERS
OF RESOLVE
By the week's end, Bentley was granted his freedom, but Kingsley invited him to remain as an advisor. “You shall be well taken care of,” he said. “And I will compensate you for your counsel in economic affairs.”
“Your offer is gracious, Lord Kingsley, but there are many of your subjects who need my help.”
Kingsley rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Your understanding of business and economics is brilliant. Peasant or not, you do not belong out there.” He motioned with his head toward the beautiful walls that surrounded the court.
Bentley smiled but shook his head. “The Prince has taught me that the value of a man and his destiny do not depend upon which side of the castle wall he makes his home.”
“I could force you to stay,” Kingsley said sternly.
“Without a doubt, sir. But which counsel is more valuable—that of a prisoner or that of a friend?”
Kingsley laughed. “You do refresh my soul, Bentley. You will keep your promise to meet with me daily at the gate?”
“I shall, my lord—after I return from a journey. I shall send word.”
Bentley insisted on donning his peasant clothes before leaving the castle. He reentered the world of despair on a day when the sun seemed to scorch his skin and there was no breeze to cool it. For some reason the oppression of the people felt worse now than it had three weeks earlier. At first he thought it was simply a matter of perspective, but he quickly discovered this was not so. The people on the streets were truly more weary, bedraggled, and forlorn than they had been before.
He made his way to Walsch's home—a small cottage on a field near the river. Bordered by trees and blessed with rich soil, it was a good field, one that Walsch was preparing for his future bride and, hopefully, a family. The cottage wa
s small and simple, with just a single room, but for a strong young peasant it was a good start.
Bentley could see Walsch working in the field, and he yelled and waved to him from a distance. Walsch paused his work and looked but didn't wave back. As Bentley came closer, he put his hand to his brow to shade the sun from his eyes.
“Ben…that be you?”
“Yes, my large friend, it is I.”
Walsch dropped his hoe and ran to Bentley. He grabbed his arm, smiled, and then embraced him. He stood back and looked Bentley over from head to toe.
“Prison life suits ye well,” Walsch said, and then his smile vanished.
Bentley saw the same look of despair on Walsch that he had seen on the faces of others. He was concerned. “What of Anya? Is she all right? Is she here?” Bentley gestured toward the cottage.
“She's not here, Ben.” Walsch shook his head and looked to the ground. “What should I know of caring for a wee one? Luanne's family agreed to take her in for a time.”
Bentley sighed with relief.
“But it's been hard, Ben. Sir Avarick and his men 'ave been ruthless.” Walsch shook his head slowly. “These past two weeks 'ave been gettin’ worse and worse each day. The people be failing, I tell ye. Many ‘ave been beaten for the smallest infractions and oft for no reason at all. I don't understand it.”
Bentley's heart sank. “I think I do. Has the Mercy Maiden helped at all?”
“She's not been to the people since Avarick threatened her. I don't think she'll be back.”
Bentley and Walsch walked as the latter shared story after story of woe. With each one, Bentley's sorrow grew. They came to the river, and the men knelt down to drink. Bentley cupped his hand and lifted the cool, refreshing water to his lips. He felt the cold wash clean down into his bosom. The sensation reminded him of the refreshing truth he had discovered in the Prince and how that too had seemed to wash him deep within.
It was at this moment that Bentley resolved to bring such life to these people he had come to love, no matter what it meant for him personally. He stood and walked away a few paces as he thought. He turned back and saw Walsch cooling his neck and face with the cold water.
“I fear that it is I who have brought this greater oppression to the people,” Bentley said.
Walsch wiped his face with his hand and looked over at his friend. “Yer more than you lead on to be, Ben o’ the south. I've known it from the beginning. Yer no commoner. Yer hands were not that of a farmer, and the way ye took on Avarick's knight—” He stopped midsentence. “Ye've been sent to us for a purpose.”
Bentley walked back and looked up at him. “By the ways of this kingdom, some may think me to be nobility. But by the ways of the Prince, I am just as common as the peasants of Holbrook—and as royal as the Prince.”
“Ye make no sense, Ben.” Walsch scratched his head. “But I've seen something in ye that I want, and I know the stories ye've told are more than fairy tales.”
“Your heart is as large as you are,” Bentley said. “Join me, and we shall serve the Prince together.”
“I am willing, but how?”
Bentley told him of the Prince. And there by the Crimson River, in the heat of a blistering day, another was added to the Knights of the Prince. Bentley felt nearly as invigorated by bringing one to the Prince as he had by choosing to follow Him himself.
“That is my purpose,” he told his new brother, “to bring to others what was given to me: a new life, a new purpose. And I will share that with every willing man, woman, and child of Holbrook.”
“Kingsley'll stand in your way,” Walsch said.
“Perhaps, but I don't believe he is our worst adversary.”
“Sir Avarick,” Walsch said soberly.
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?” Walsch asked.
“I must go away, but I will return shortly.”
Bentley bid Walsch farewell and departed along the road that led northeast from Holbrook. It was the same road he had traveled months earlier, following Sir Demus to the small cabin nestled in the green hills north of the Brimshire Plains. Although he had gone to Holbrook merely to learn about the ways of the peasantry, his very presence had changed the course of lives.
The oppression the people of Holbrook endured was much more than a heavy yoke for them; it was a true prison. Bentley's journey to fully understanding the ways of the Prince had led him here, and now he could not simply turn away from their need.
Had Sir Demus known this all along, or was it coincidence that had entwined his life with the lives of these people?
Whether Sir Demus knew it or not, deep in his heart Bentley knew that once one chose the Prince, coincidence had very little to do with anything.
THE HOG FARMER'S
DAUGHTER
Bentley set his course toward the cottage, hoping that Sir Demus might still be tarrying there. He knew he might not find him, for Demus had indicated he would have other duties in Bentley's absence. He desperately desired the counsel of this wise mute man, but if that was not to be, there was another purpose for his return. It was time to collect his horse, take up his sword, and put on the full armor of the King.
Not too far out of Holbrook, the road rose up from the river plain and into the hills, and Bentley once again came to the fork in the road. One branch wove through the Brimwood Forest to the north, where Bentley could see portions of the beautiful Crimson River winding its way through the trees and toward Holbrook. The road he took led along the ridge of a hill for some distance and took him near Demus's cottage. By now the scorching afternoon sun had fallen far enough to the horizon to cast long, welcoming shadows.
Bentley arrived at the crest of the hill where he and Sir Demus had last trained. The cottage was just visible at the lengthy end of a small valley on one side, and the distant checkered farms of Holbrook were visible on the other. He paused and considered the past few months as he gazed toward Holbrook and the road that had led him here. He breathed deeply and was just about to turn toward the cottage when movement on the road caught his eye.
A wagon with a driver, a rider on the back gate, and a single horse was nearing the fork in the road. Though the distance was too far to identify the driver's features, Bentley was certain that it could be none other than Eirwyn returning from a visit to the people.
He waved his arm high above his head, but he was far to the right of her view. He brought his hands to his mouth and took a deep breath to call out to her, then stopped as a slightly mischievous thought entered his mind.
The Mercy Maiden was a mystery to all of Holbrook. If he followed her to her father's hog farm, he might be able to discover more about this odiferous and unusual young woman. He watched as she took the road at the fork that led to the forest.
Bentley abandoned his trek to the cottage and wasted no time retracing his steps back to the fork. By this point, however, he was far behind Eirwyn's wagon—and he had known it would be difficult to catch up with her as it was.
The road Eirwyn took wound its way through the hills until it disappeared in the thick trees of the Brimwood Forest. Bentley followed, trailing far behind. At times, he lost sight of her completely. And once in the forest, she seemed to completely disappear.
Bentley quickened his pace and began to tire. Would he ever be able to catch her? The forest smelled sweetly of pine and honeysuckle. The dark green canopy above was pierced occasionally by dancing sunbeams that shifted slightly back and forth as the leaves gated their passing. Bentley smiled to hear the splash of a lofty waterfall a short distance to his left, where the Crimson River should be.
The road ahead continued to follow the winding path of least resistance past large, rocky outcroppings and hills that would be too steep for a wagon burdened with a load of wares. At one point the road sloped sharply, and Bentley had to stop halfway up the hill to catch his breath. Sweat poured from his brow, for even though the forest protected him from the sun, its humid air was hot and heavy t
o breathe.
He rested with hands on his knees and looked ahead to the climb that awaited him. Though the waterfall was now behind him, the sound of it made him desire the cool quenching of thirst it offered. Still he trudged onward, up the rise in the road to the top of a knoll where the trees were thinner.
He stopped again at the top and looked ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of Eirwyn. Though the section of road ahead was straight for a long distance, she was nowhere in sight. “Impossible!” he said.
He straightened and sucked in several deep breaths, quite at a loss over what to do. Farther travel down the road seemed pointless. She had either quickened her pace and was now too far ahead for him to ever catch her, or she truly was some apparition that only materialized outside the boundaries of the forest. It was a silly thought, but it did raise goose bumps on his arms despite the heat of the day. He simply couldn't explain her disappearance.
Bentley turned and began to walk back down the road he had just traveled, contemplating the mysterious Eirwyn. He eventually came to the sound of the falls again and stopped. It dawned on him that the road over the hill must have split farther up at a place he couldn't see. It was the only answer. He considered climbing the hill once again to find the other road, then realized again that Eirwyn would now be too far for him to catch her. He settled in his mind that tomorrow he would investigate further once he had recovered Silverwood… if his horse was still at the cottage.
Bentley became acutely aware of his thirst at this point, and the waterfall called to him more alluringly than before. He detoured off the road and set his course through the woods in the direction of the sound. The forest floor dropped quickly away, and the terrain became more rugged as he neared the river. With some careful navigating, Bentley finally came to the rocky shores of the Crimson River, just downstream of the falls.
Here the river was only fifteen paces wide and perhaps as deep as a man, but the turbulent waters moved swiftly. The babble of waters slapping the rocks at his feet mixed with the now-thunderous sounds of the falls. He knelt beside the mossy rocks on the near bank and drank deeply; then he stood and looked toward the falls. They were much taller than he expected, and frothy waters at the base were partially hidden by a pervasive white mist that softened the hard edges of the rocky waterway.