Ficlet: Life On Mars
His Lord sent him to survey the surroundings and report any insubordination. The underlying insinuation, of course, being that if he spotted Gene of Manchester, that he would immediately follow and record the position of his men and his hideout. And he had done so because a good knight obeyed his Lord, supported what best helped his Lord, while keeping in mind what was best for the people as well. In his opinion, Gene of Manchester provided only mass hysteria and caused only grief. Since he had sworn under Lord Morgan of Hyde, he had watched crops pilfered, houses burned and serfs sent into panic all in the name of some common good which Gene preached.
He road at a steady but non-aggressive pace through the woods, his right hand on his sword, his eyes watching his surroundings. According to those he studied under, he showed great intelligence and possessed one of the keenest senses of observation. The knight he served as a squire, Glen of Fletcher, had praised him as well as pushed him to do his best.
"What do you believe is most important about knighthood, Sam?" he inquired one night, as they traveled towards the latest feud their Lord had gotten into.
He'd stayed quiet for a long time, pondering all the skills he'd acquired over the years and all the talents he'd awoken. "Doing what is right?"
"Is that a question or an answer?"
"An answer," he said with confidence and winced as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up at Glen of Fletcher and saw him beaming.
"Perfect answer, Sam," he squeezed hard. "Never forget that. As long as you do what is RIGHT, everything else will follow."
A sound behind him had him turn slightly in his saddle but not too noticeably. His fingers tightened on his sword. Before him, a man with gentle features stepped out onto the road. His clothes appeared ragged, peasant grade, and he appeared to not have eaten recently if his hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks meant anything. Wary yet concerned, Sam stopped his horse so he would not trample the man and watched him from a careful distance. He carried only a few coins with him, for his journey was not supposed to be long, and there was danger in carrying any vast amount in his purse.
"How now, sir?" he called, hearing yet another sound behind him. Something here did not feel right.
"My guv, that's to say m'lord," the man mumbled, "wants to be knowin' what a man like y'self's doin' here."
"An errand for my lord," Sam told him evasively. "Allow me to pass and I will be out of your Lord's concern."
His horse suddenly reared for no reason and quick as can be, the man sprung on it, ripping the reins from his hand. He tried to wrestle them back, only to be knocked from his horse by a man who came down from a tree. Foliage about him swirled and revealed more people, hovering in wait but he never caught a good glimpse of his faces. The only clear image he had was a very large man who stood over him, foot on his chest, his eyebrows raised.
"Chris asked y'a question," he said. "And y'were most unhelpful. Let's try again, shall we? Who sent ye and why?"
And that was how Sam of Tyler became prisoner of Gene of Manchester.
He road at a steady but non-aggressive pace through the woods, his right hand on his sword, his eyes watching his surroundings. According to those he studied under, he showed great intelligence and possessed one of the keenest senses of observation. The knight he served as a squire, Glen of Fletcher, had praised him as well as pushed him to do his best.
"What do you believe is most important about knighthood, Sam?" he inquired one night, as they traveled towards the latest feud their Lord had gotten into.
He'd stayed quiet for a long time, pondering all the skills he'd acquired over the years and all the talents he'd awoken. "Doing what is right?"
"Is that a question or an answer?"
"An answer," he said with confidence and winced as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up at Glen of Fletcher and saw him beaming.
"Perfect answer, Sam," he squeezed hard. "Never forget that. As long as you do what is RIGHT, everything else will follow."
A sound behind him had him turn slightly in his saddle but not too noticeably. His fingers tightened on his sword. Before him, a man with gentle features stepped out onto the road. His clothes appeared ragged, peasant grade, and he appeared to not have eaten recently if his hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks meant anything. Wary yet concerned, Sam stopped his horse so he would not trample the man and watched him from a careful distance. He carried only a few coins with him, for his journey was not supposed to be long, and there was danger in carrying any vast amount in his purse.
"How now, sir?" he called, hearing yet another sound behind him. Something here did not feel right.
"My guv, that's to say m'lord," the man mumbled, "wants to be knowin' what a man like y'self's doin' here."
"An errand for my lord," Sam told him evasively. "Allow me to pass and I will be out of your Lord's concern."
His horse suddenly reared for no reason and quick as can be, the man sprung on it, ripping the reins from his hand. He tried to wrestle them back, only to be knocked from his horse by a man who came down from a tree. Foliage about him swirled and revealed more people, hovering in wait but he never caught a good glimpse of his faces. The only clear image he had was a very large man who stood over him, foot on his chest, his eyebrows raised.
"Chris asked y'a question," he said. "And y'were most unhelpful. Let's try again, shall we? Who sent ye and why?"
And that was how Sam of Tyler became prisoner of Gene of Manchester.