A Knight at the Inn (1/3)

A/N: This three-part story is inspired by an old Vocal prompt where writers were asked to select 3 words from a word search to include within a piece. I decided to challenge myself further with 10 random words from an online generator and include them within a fictional story. There are as follows:

• Exile
• Stomach
• Panel
• Owner
• Institution
• Rider
• Remark
• Draw
• Summit
• Ambition

When they appear - they are highlighted in bold.

Enjoy!

Segrave was a fine place for Ser Amery to oversee. He was given farms and fishing land by Fishpool Brook – a large swollen river with a simple name. Segrave was indeed an enviable piece of land for any Knight. Over the last decade, he had expanded his gift, bringing peasants from far and wide in to produce food for the Kingdom. He treated them well, making sure they were healthy enough to work the land – there’s no value in broken men.

Ser Amery was gifted such valuable land from the Baron of Segrave; John Mawbray. He said the Knight had earned it in the Battle for the Flood Lands, which took place near Fishpool Brook.

The Great Heathen Army had infected the seas of England, using their skinny ships to slink into briny lakes. The King had put out a call for all Knights to stop them from creeping into England but to no avail. The Heathen Army had arrived and had set up several large colonies.

They were odd folk, with a strange religion. They worshiped many gods instead of the Almighty, who ruled over England. They covered themselves in paints and strutted around their camps, speaking a strange tongue. They fought, hunted, and socialized just like the Knights of England did, but approached those activities with no code of chivalry.

Ser Amery remembered when the heathens arrived. Their boats were covered in round shields, faces painted in blues, greens, and yellows, and covered in runic writing. They silently drifted along the river like a fog, and they descended onto the banks just as opaquely.

What a terrible day that was...

The Knight was broken out of his memories by a knock on his door. He sat in his large wooden townhouse, surrounded by embroideries and crystal glass. He stood and opened the black latch, swinging the door inwards. He was greeted by the sight of John Mawbray, the Baron of Segrave.

“Hail! Welcume!” Ser Amery exclaimed, in pleasant surprise.

“Hail Ser!” the Baron greeted back, cheerfully with an awkward smile. Amery saw how his jaw clenched behind it and invited him inside quickly, afeared of more conflicts for which a Knight may be needed.

“Mead? Wine?” he offered his guest.

“Nay, I cannot stay to drink beside thee,” he helped quickly.

“Tell me hastily, what brings you here?”

The Baron paused, seemingly unable to bring his thoughts into words.

“The King has made a new demand,” he began with a measured voice, “for more Knights.”

“Well then, he had better get his sword ready to Knight some, eh?” Ser Amery laughed loudly. The baron laughed nervously along.

“Well, actually, he has requested that these new Knights hail from more…noble blood.”

Ser Amery was at a loss as to what the Baron could have meant by that. He gestured for him to continue.

“As such, the King has ordered the Knights across England to be married by the new year.” The baron spoke in a rush.

The Knight took a moment to process the information that had been thrust into his home at a moment's notice. He had never even considered marriage. There was a lack of eligible high-born women in Segrave. Besides, marriage came with complications – and children even more so.

“Nay.” Ser Amery stated gruffly.

The Baron rushed to amend his covert order. “Ser, I must protest. The King has picked out a fine bride for you; the Lady Blathnaid of Segrave,” his voice picked up an eager tone.

“I have heard of no such Lady.”

“Nay, she recently came to court and began as a Lady, due to her father’s Knighthood.”

‘Ah, a Knight’s daughter’ Ser Amery thought ‘She would certainly be my equal.’ But still, he could not recall another Knight in the area. He gestured for the Baron to continue, who did so nervously.

“He was knighted for great bravery against The Great Heathen Army but has since died during an outbreak of disease. His daughter, now a Lady, is in great need of support and a good marriage. That is something you both share now.”

Ser Amery scowled at the Baron.

“How did he make his coin?” he asked.

“Ah, well, he made his money tending to lands and supporting the local Knights through the provision of sustenance.”

“A PEASANT?!” Ser Amery stood abruptly, towering over the Baron.

“Nay! Nay Ser! A Knight!”

“A Knight for how long before demise?” There was a pause. The question hung in the air.

“A month.”

“Get out! Leave I beseech thee before I betray my King and run you through!”

The Baron scoffed at his reaction.

“Nay, such dramatics! He was a brave Knight, and his daughter is a Lady who the King has personally ordered you to marry!”

“Ordered?”

“Aye! She has been picked for you and shall arrive at your door within the week.” The Baron stood and made to leave. Ser Amery stood in front of the door to stop him.

“I would rather live in exile from Segrave than marry a peasant girl – even worse to mate with her. Do you understand?”

The Baron seemed shocked by his strong words. He looked at the Knight with new eyes. Ser Amery was not who he thought.

“Do you have such ambition, to refuse the King's order?”

This made Ser Amery twitch, reconsidering his earlier words. That would be an act of treason. One worthy of beheading.

“I will see you when Lady Blathnaid arrives.” The Baron pushed past Ser Amery and left with swiftness similar to a mouse away from a broom.

Amery stood in his house in ruined spirits. He truly felt unready for marriage.

'Why did she have to be a born peasant? I haven't known a peasant closely since...him.'

Ser Amery's worried mind was cast back to the past, to the time before the Heathens came.

Most do not consider how much time you spend in an army simply marching. There are miles and miles to walk with poor shoes to walk them in. Though, that was not the case for Ser Amery. He had inherited his father’s knighthood and therefore enjoyed a certain level of comfort that others didn’t. That included a horse for marching on.

“Hail there, Ser!”

Ser Amery looked down at his boot, where a peasant was marching alongside his horse. His dirt-covered face shined up at the Knight, a glint in his eyes.

“Aye?”

“Where did ye get yer boots?” He pointed to Ser Amery’s feet, thickly covered in heavy leather.

The other Knights took offense to the peasant’s brazen nature, murmuring among themselves. Ser Amery, on the other hand, was curious.

“A leatherworker that makes the finest boots in the Kingdom. He even makes the King’s,” Ser Amery boasted.

“What a shame,”

“A shame?”

“To be wearin’ such fine boots and ye aren’t even walking in ‘em,”

The other knights began to get louder.

“How dare he talk to a Knight that way!”

“Silence!”

“Have some manners!”

Ser Amery considered the peasant's opinion. It was true really. In comparison to those on the peasants’ feet, his boots were much more suited to walking long distances but instead, he had been placed high on horseback.

“I suppose ye may ask me for mine?” Ser Amery joked.

“I may,” the peasant replied cheekily.

“What is your name?”

“Warin, Ser”

“I shall call ye Warin the Woodlark,”

“Why?”

“Because you are chirping in my ear, Warin. Now, eyes front!”

Smiling, Warin turned around and continued his march. Ser Amery ignored the continued complaints of his fellow nobles and kicked his horse forward.

Warin and Ser Amery continued to cross paths over the next couple of days on march. Ser Amery broke up a verbal fight between Warin and another peasant one afternoon. Warin had insisted another peasant get a fair share of hunted meat when some others had turned on him. He had taken a nasty hit in the eye before Ser Amery managed to pull the others off him. Ser Amery did not understand why Warin would not accept that the weaker peasants simply ate less – they were far more likely to die abruptly, anyway.

In return for his kindness, Warin taught Ser Amery about horse behavior and how to communicate with his mount. Ser Amery found himself liking Warin's company immensely. Despite his blackened eye, he was in a cheerful mood, living up to his woodlark nickname and chirping away.

"See, horses don't like to be kicked, makes em scared and that's how ye get ye'self thrown. Just tense your legs and that's enough to get them going..."

On the last day of the march, Warin’s feet were bleeding too badly to walk without support. Several Knights offered to ‘encourage the peasant’ using increasingly violent methods, sadistically wiggling their horse whips in the air. Instead, Ser Amery agreed to give his boots to Warin for a day. The others thought he was mad and whined at him to change his mind. He lost the respect of a lot of other Knights that day but, for some reason, he could not bear the thought of Warin suffering worse than he already was.

“HAIL, OVER THERE!” A voice shouted from the front of the march.

“THEY’RE IN THE RIVER!”

Ser Amery galloped his horse forward to get a clear line of sight to the river ahead using his thighs to communicate to his mount. Silently gliding along the mirrored surface of the water were at least twenty heathen longships. They were large - built for sea travel.

They had met their enemies early.

Ser Amery once again pulled himself out of his own thoughts with great effort. He had to clear his head. A ride on one of his horses would do.

He chose a striking black steed on which to ride. Fast but not too eager. Since his training with Warin, he had become an excellent horse rider. He enjoyed gentle rides through Segrave to admire his land.

From the stables, Ser Amery rode through the town. Cobbled streets branched out, lined with timbered white houses. Those with coin wandered around. Women wore loose corsets and long dresses, the ends of which skimmed the cobbles as they walked. Men wore billowing shirts and rough trousers, tucked into long leather boots. Ser Amery paid them no mind as he rode through.

Next, he made it to the farms of his precious Segrave. Peasants dressed in scraps tended to fields and livestock with care. Ser Amery did not look at them when he galloped across the dirt paths leading to the wilderness. That is where he wanted to be, alone and free.

He rode over wild hills overgrown with long grasses. The wind whipped and rippled the loose green, creating waves across the ground. Segrave was breathing. He reached the summit of one and stopped.

‘Should I run from this? Can I run from this? I did not even ask her name! I could have known her, I know many of my peasants. They are good people, some even noble. Noble like…’

Ser Amery flinched and kicked his horse forward harshly. He was not going to remember that man, not anymore.

Eventually, Ser Amery stumbled across a remote inn. As if appearing from the undergrowth, it sprang from the ground like an eager spring flower. Eager, yet crooked. The thatched roof sat strange and unstable, bending under its own weight atop log walls. A stone chimney coughed smoke into the treetops, someone was inside.

‘Well, I could stop for the night, I will be saddle sore if I return hastily,’ Ser Amery thought.

He led his horse over to the stables and secured them. He patted the horse in thanks before making his way to the inn door. The horse seemed unnerved. Ser Amery swore to make sure that the horses in Segrave had full training to avoid this type of cowardliness when staying in unfamiliar stables.

When he entered the inn, the sight that greeted him was unexpected. He had anticipated a gruff bearded barkeep tending to a crowded inn full of patrons. Instead, he saw a woman behind the bar, with the tables completely deserted. Ser Amery immediately felt a sinking feeling.

“Hello there, darling” the woman greeted.

She was Irish, that was clear from her accent. Her orange hair was a vision – fluffy and wild. Freckles adorned her face and arms, mottling her skin in a dusting of speckled brown.

Sky blue eyes fixed on Ser Amery.

‘She is most handsome,’ thought the Knight, pleased by her vision.

“Come in, darling. What would you like?”

There was that word again ‘darling’.

‘A very familiar name to call someone you have just met,’ thought Ser Amery, though in his heart he could not bring himself to mind in any significant way, not when gazing at such a woman.

“A darling, am I?” he asked in a teasing tone, his voice deep.

“With a face like that, you may just be,” she replied without missing a beat.

‘This woman is very forward!’

A preening peacock, Ser Amery fluffed his beard and rubbed his cheeks free of dirt. He proudly strutted up to the bar.

“Mead…” he requested.

“One mead,” the barmaid repeated.

“…and your name?” he asked hopefully.

“My, such a brave question to ask a woman alone,” she fixed Ser Amery with a critical eye, “what should I expect in return?”

“My own?” he offered.

“Deal, I am Anwir.”

“Ser Amery.”

“My, a Ser! Whose good grace should I be in to receive a Ser in my humble inn?” she asked rhetorically before turning to fetch a large pewter flagon. She dipped it unceremoniously within an open barrel of mead. Ser Amery grimaced at the layer of dead flies lingering atop the amber liquid.

“So sweet, the flies dare to drink,” Anwir said, noticing his grimace yet unbothered by it.

“Even though it leads to their demise,” Ser Amery replied, “poor, gluttonous pests.”

“Indeed.”

Now Ser Amery was sat on a barstool, and much closer to Anwir the barmaid, he could see a sharpness to her. Upon turning, a razor’s edge caught his eye. It was as if he were looking through fogged glass, he could not tell where the sharpness was. When he managed to catch a look upon it, it would disappear like a glint of sunlight.

“Is it becoming of a Ser to look upon a poor woman with such eyes?”

Feeling caught, Ser Amery looked away, his bravado leaving him quickly.

Strangely enough, his mind chose the moment of quiet to wander into the darkness.

The screaming reached his ears before the blood reflected in his eyes. They were ruthless. They fought as a whole unit of death. Round shields stood strong against those wooden panels the peasants had managed to scavenge together. Together, they pushed through the initial defenses – the poorest of the King’s army. They fell to axes and stolen swords. The King’s divine protection offered them no refuge against the onslaught from the boats.

Ser Amery had to watch them fall. The King’s orders rendered him motionless. The peasants were placed on the front line as disposable bodies to fatigue the heathens with their will to survive. Most of them had only wooden farm tools to defend themselves. They shattered and splintered in their hands. More screams – more blood.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sights, sounds, and, oh lord, the smell of battle. It was hell. The hell he was taught to fear upon death by the monks. Hell had come for England.

Ser Amery kept his eyes on Warin. He was an impressive fighter, holding his own against several heathens with nothing but a short sword to protect himself. His footwork was abysmal, but he had haste. His sword flew with enviable speed, whipping around his body in a blur. Nobody could get close enough to hurt him but soon enough, he was being pushed back by the sheer number of weapons to parry.

Ser Amery willed him to fight well and to step behind the line of Knights as the front line was pushed back. He felt a lump in his throat. His sweating hands tightened against the reins.

Suddenly, the edge of a circular shield thumped into Warin’s jaw with a thud. His sword stopped dead and it took no more than a blink of an eye for him to fall down into the mud. He was wriggling in brown and red. People began to step on him.

Ser Amery began to panic. His feelings threatened to leak from his skin and through the cracks in his armor. He could not betray his King and go to Warin's aid. He could not close his eyes and ignore Warin's struggle. He was in a purgatory of hellish nature.

Thanks to the Knight’s boots he was wearing, Warin managed to regain his footing. Ser Amery gasped loudly. Blood was streaming from the peasant's mouth but he stood strong. He looked around wildly for his sword, to no avail. He took a punch from a heathen before staggering away, back towards the Knights.

Ser Amery edged his horse forwards slightly, trying to give Warin any advantage he could. In an instant, the order was shouted and Ser Amery drew his sword, the golden hilt glinting in the sun. The other Knights did the same. A line of silver between the devil and the King.

And between the silver line and the devil ran Warin, eyes fixed on Ser Amery. Bleeding and desperate.

A/N: My dear readers, this is my most ambitious story yet - A month in the making! I hope you enjoy the journey that Ser Amery will go on, past and present. Thank you for reading, the next part will be posted in 3 days' time!

Editorial notes are also most welcome! I have never written something this big before and I am sure there are errors somewhere!

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