Errant Knight

He leant on his shield, the battered metal of the rim digging into the stony ground. Sweat stung his eyes and his shoulders burned from strain. Aways from him, the knave stood readjusting his grip. Both wore lobstered steel, but his foeman wore his with the easy grace of a younger man. I am not such a youth anymore. Damn him!

The hunt had led him to find his quarry, finding him filling his waterskin at a nascent stream at the foot of a grassy hillock. His honour refused to let him kill the knave unawares, to paint a red smile across that marauder’s throat, so instead he had hailed him, offered terms of combat, and then upon being accepted, engaged the bastard.

As was gallant, he allowed the villain to don his arms and armour, readying himself for their duel. Those red hands wielded an elegant longsword, curiously etched and gilded. His shield bore a fire-breathing rooster as device, an escutcheon that heralded menace upon any a good town the man had ridden. Armouring himself in exquisite filigreed plate, this rogue had the gall to suggest that he had killed the evil-doer, ridding the world of a great evil. The knight was aghast that he would propose such an outrageous tale. He spat to let him know what he thought of that, then bulled towards him, mace singing and his shield held tight, proudly displaying his snarling six-legged hound.

His quarry had a fine destrier, no doubt stolen from a better man than he. The handsome beast did not bolt, but instead watched the deadly dance of sword and mace with white eyes. Time seemed to slow, indeed even the wide world had shrunk to this place beside the stream. Our knight-errant had made to break the rogue in a sure attack, aiming to end this fiend quickly. The deceiver was not easily cowed however, and soon he was bringing the attack and the knight tried as best he could to keep his shield high and block the tight swings of the blade. The painted spitfire-rooster smashed him in the chest, shoulder, and helm, again and again and again, until the world went white and the mace fell from his grip…

He did not know how long had passed, coming to sprawled indignantly on the ground, his helm lying dented in the dirt. It took him a moment to notice the armoured man sitting on a tree stump a few feet away, his sword planted in the soil. Snatching up his fallen shield the knight searched for his misplaced mace… but he could not see it. A hearty chuckle broke off his desperate search, a deep-throated roar from the seated rogue that sounded more like thunder than a laugh in truth. The knight scowled at him, but somehow, he did not think the laugh held any malice. He hesitantly lowered his shield arm.

When that thunderstorm finally calmed, the knave’s face was full of mirth, his eyes bright with joy. He asked the knight why he tracked him for so long, to offer him a battle-at-arms. The knight, confused, said that as a knight that was the right thing to do, the honourable thing to do, he was duty-bound to uphold the laws of chivalry. After all, to battle him unchivalrously would be tantamount to bloody murder. To that, the knave gave a solemn nod. Slowly, the younger man took off his gauntlets, his breastplate, and greaves, until he wore only light breaches, supple boats, and a leather jerkin. The knight saw the same spitfire rooster on there too.

The man asked if he would sit with him. At first, the knight thought that this was some trick, some ruse to get him off-guard and into his grave. He made to get his shield, but in doing so his head pounded abominably. The seated man must have realised what he meant to do, for he chuckled again, and tossed him a dagger, telling him that as he means to kill him, best he have a blade in hand. Our knight saw something in that man’s face, open and honest, somewhat trusting. Faces can lie as well as any tongue. Going against his better judgement, he sat as close to him as he dared.

His onetime prey was quick, and he stood. The knight braced himself, gripping the dagger tightly, the knave looking at him with a vexatious smile, and then stretched and yawned. He strode to that beautiful warhorse and unslung a pack, from which he produced waybread. He tossed a piece to the knight, and they had themselves a modest meal in the lee of the hill.

This man was a brother of a knightly order of men, or so he claimed. They ranged the land on quests, to hear him tell. When asked, he claimed that he had sworn a sacred vow to keep his mission a secret, and which could only be discussed with a fellow of his brotherhood. He did, however, allow that he and his root out evil-doers across the realm. The knight had his doubts, questioning him why a gallant fellowship would allow such a fell brute among their ranks. The laughter in the spitfire’s eyes vanished, and his face seemed to darken.

“Foul times beget only foul men”. He turned to the sun, which had begun to sink below the steady rise of the knoll, a blaze incandescence on a dusky canvas. “The valorous are scant in these twilit days”. Our knight felt the weight of his actions burden him, making his armour even more cumbersome. He realised then what he should have seen outright. He asked the spitfire if the blackguard had died bravely in their battle. For a long moment, the spitfire said nothing. Then looked thoughtfully at his rooted blade. The rosy light shining red off the steel. “He lived, and died, by the sword”, was all he said.

“My quest was in vain from the start,” he lamented to the spitfire. His legacy was to be of failure. “I endeavoured to kill an honourable man.” His companion shook his head, exclaiming that, “Nay, sir! Your intentions were just from inception to execution. In your heart, you sought to expel evil and prevent more from suffering at the hands of the beasts in human skin. You offered fair terms of combat to your opponent, and for that, your honour is unblemished.” That gave the old knight some heart. They stayed a-whiles and talked.

The spitfire took little time to ready his mount for his journey ahead. Our knight asked him where he was headed, receiving only a wry smile as response. He stayed long after the quester had departed, pondering their exchanges of steel and words. Only when the moon was high did he himself mount up and ride away, feeling the call to a warm hearth, good food, and a soft bed. His armour rattled softly and the dagger at his hip flashed in the moonglow.

The spitfire was wrong, he resolved. These times also beget chivalry.