The Sinking of the Apple Knight by Tommy Oler
A morally estranged knight recalls defining moments from his past as he struggles against drowning.
The catapult on the curtain wall snapped. Sir Gerald Drymon, the Apple Knight, was below the castle walls in the river below, standing at the bow of a rowboat. His mood was foul tonight, and his remaining teeth hurt. He'd worked hard over the years to get back into the good graces of Lord Peck and be a knight in his retinue. But Lord Peck still considered Drymon a mercenary risen above his station. Tonight's battle would prove otherwise. Lord Peck had assigned Drymon a paltry force of four men to climb the castle walls and drop the bridge. It was a task Peck had assumed Drymon would be too scared to undertake. The fat lord assumed wrong.
Drymon would drop the bridge and spit in Lord Peck's eye for the insult.
He peered up to see where the contraption would fling the body parts, but the night sky was a black pit. Waiting, watching, he heard water lap against the boat, and smelled the sharp cool air. Lord Peck had called his knights, and mercenaries like Drymon, to take back his dead brother's holding. Peck's nephew, instead of becoming a minor lord like his father and bending knee to the elder Peck, had grander ambitions. After a short, disastrous campaign, the younger Peck retreated behind his castle walls. Two months of siege later, disease and starvation had led to the nephew hurtling the dead over the walls.
A naked torso plunged into the water ahead and the rowboat rocked backward. Water splashed into Drymon's mouth and left a coppery taste. He cursed his mouth-breathing. He cursed his being here! He was a knight, not some common man-at-arms to be thrown against the walls. There were songs written about him - well... a song.
"Ak!" A sore on his leg reopened in the rocking. He could feel all the sores on his leg now, the open flesh irritated and raw. Drymon clenched his fists, spun on his oarsmen, and slapped the helm of the nearest man. "Faster, idiots! We cross the river and the castle is ours. I'll not -"
Crack! Drymon tumbled backward. He got a fleeting glimpse of blood and bone, and when he turned to grab something, anything, water rushed into his helm.
Shit.
Sir Drymon sank.
He knew, everyone knew, falling into water with armor on was death. But he'd planned for this. He hadn't donned his cuirass or greaves. Concentrate. Calm. He only need remove his helm, gloves, coif, ring mail, sabatons, shiiit!
No. Don't panic.
Panicked, he removed his helm as he hit the bottom of the river. He looked up. The surface was only two meters away. The enemy had launched parts of their dead for so long the river had a red tinge to it. Reflected in that were the torches of the castellan rippling on the surface. It gave his salvation a golden-red glow. It was marred by the kicking feet of the men in his boat swimming in retreat. Drymon turned, reaching a hand for them, but the water cut off his frenzied shout. His twisting lifted muddy silt to his waist, and the color of it raised an old memory in him. A memory of mud and blood.
"Sir Cunnybush! Sir Cunnybush, hold on, sir!" Squire Gerald Drymon was 17 years old. His body was healthy, and most of his teeth hadn't succumbed to rot. His master, Sir Cunnybush, was on his back being choked to death in the mud. Meanwhile, Squire Gerald bungled about in the nearby brush searching for his master's sword.
A brawny knight, Sir Heady of the Crown River, was on top of Sir Cunnybush. Heady had lost his helm and had his forearm dug into Cunny's neck. Heady's face purpled with the effort.
The unfortunately named Cunnybush was the only knight who saw potential in Gerald, and the squire was not about to let him die. Gerald had been a clumsy and weak page, and when he turned 14, the age a page graduates to squire, none of the knights in Lord Peck's retinue wanted him. None except Cunnybush.
Beyond this struggle, the rest of the battle seemed to be going well. A lot of the agonized shouts had a different accent to them. More oy m'guts and less ah, my guts, so that was good. What surprised Gerald the most wasn't the violence but how much these battles smelled of horse shit. He could smell it now because after groping about in the mud, it was all over him.
Gerald swept some brush aside and knelt in a muddy puddle. When he lifted his hand, it hadn't been standing water he was in, but blood. In the crimson puddle, a metal pommel winked at him. He lifted Cunnybush's sword, but someone kicked his arm and toppled the weapon back to the muck.
Sir Heady's own blonde squire tsked. "I says we let 'em fight."
Gerald looked to the sword and then to the struggle. Heady pressed down hard, a brown bubble grew from the mud where Cunny's face had been. Gerald leapt for the sword, but he caught another kick that sent him sprawling. The blonde squire pressed the advantage, booting Gerald one more time, twisting him onto his back.
The young man straddled Gerald. "You wanna die, too?" The squire punched Gerald once, twice.
"Augh!" Heady's squire groaned. He looked down to see Gerald's rondel dug up beneath his ribs.
Gerald pushed the boy, his body flopping to the mud. That was the first time he'd used the dagger on a person. He thanked his mom's memory for the gift.
Slapping the ground, Gerald searched, his eyes stung with sweat or blood, mud or worse. He found the sword, lifted it, and was proud to feel it lighter now.
The squire had done well indeed in sharpening Sir Cunny's blade. It cleaved through Heady's skull in a single swing.
Gerald flaked a bit of rust from the ring mail with his thumb. "I can take this?"
"You killed the man," Cunnybush wiped caked mud from his hair. "There's no dishonor in reaping your spoils. You could paint it green, like mine." He patted his chest, the green plate mail scratched and dulled from battle.
"I'd want something fiercer. Maybe red... and black."
My own ring mail, they'll take me seriously now.
Gerald had worn a padded doublet and leather greaves for a long time now. Hardly suitable for a squire of a landed knight. Sir Cunnybush had always provided the basics, but he expected Gerald to earn his armor.
Cunnybush was small, his hair grey, bordering on white. His small round head above his cuirass looked childish. There was a lifelong struggle for a petite man with "cunny" in his name. But despite this, the knight was well regarded by those who got to know him.
Sitting together under a tree overlooking the field of battle, Sir Cunnybush and Gerald watched the bird's feast.
A company of men marched by; one soldier smiled. "Sir Cunnybush." Other soldiers snickered and scoffed.
The knight unstrapped his gorget. "Why keep a name like Cunnybush? Tell me, Gerald."
"Your house is well-known, it's -"
"My name was nothing before me. It's a name my mother gained by being the only whore in Nutbush. Men still make japes and they ever will. No."
"I don't know, my lord."
The knight stood. "Help me with this."
Gerald rose and unbuckled the straps of the old knight's armor. "Cunnybush will be what's left of my mother and I after I'm gone. That and my stories, my legend. Of my deeds, good and bad."
Gerald looked up at the words on his lord's heraldry. A knight carrying a peasant woman over a green field.
"Stories of 'strength through honor,'" Gerald said. The words of Cunnybush's house.
"Despite her profession, my mother worked hard enough to see me page under a landed knight, Sir Drinnon."
The stories of Sir Drinnon's misadventures were well known. More than half were probably false, but they all agreed that Sir Drinnon was a walking devil.
"A complicated man," Gerald said.
"He was a monster," said Cunny with a wan smile. "Even while his deeds during the last war were heroic beyond compare. I saw him strike down six slavers to rescue a young girl who had been taken from her father. But the very next year, after the war was won and the coin gone, Sir Drinnon decided his heroism was owed a debt. We went to the father's house. When the man refused to pay, Sir Drinnon ran the girl through." Gerald set the cuirass down and the knight stood, his face a shadow. "It was another two years before I had stones enough to kill the bastard. But his stories live on. And I connected to many of them. I aim to make new stories. Good ones. Gerald, when you become a knight, you become a knight for all time, not only in war."
Cunny stared out at the battlefield and for the first time Gerald thought his master looked... old. Did his jowls always sag as much? Was it age or mud that made every line in his face stand out? Gerald did not know, but his lord had gone beyond looking distinguished as aged men do. Today, Gerald thought, Sir Cunnybush looked tired.
"The memories we have make us who we are," Cunny said, unsheathing his sword. "But the memories we share tell others who we want to be." The old knight stared into his blade. "Kneel."
Immediately Gerald knelt. He'd waited for this day. Three years he'd waited. And a long three years it had been. His favorite camp follower, Della, would surely lower her price now!
Cunny raised his sword. "Gerald Drymon, for farmers and fishers who feed you," Cunny placed the sword to Gerald's right shoulder. "For the smiths and priests who mend you," he placed it on the left. "Will you protect their lives and the lives of your lords and serve the realm with honesty and faith?"
"I will."
"Then rise, a knight of the King's Empire, Sir Gerald Drymon."
Della, here I come!
In the water, his glove tumbled to the rocks. He'd only had them two weeks! Drymon pulled at his ring mail coif, it caught on his gorget, pushing it against his chin and throat. Clamping his jaw sent sharp pain from his remaining hateful teeth. He coughed through his nose and water rushed in. He closed his eyes tight against the pain in his mouth and his burning lungs. Fool! Cut it off!
Drymon pulled his rondel and sliced the gorget's straps at his shoulders. The soft current took it somewhere behind him. Something streaked across his vision. Frantic, he yanked the coif off his head. He gave it to the river as lights raced across his eyes like flecks of gold. The pain in his mouth had sent a creeping blackness at the edges of his vision. Not gold. Stars. I'm seeing stars. This is not the gold I take...
He recalled glittering gold... and a curse.
He remembered a walk by a river when he was 27, and the guilt that would grip his heart.
"Put this on," Sir Harl said, handing him a ring mail coif.
"I've a helmet," Drymon said, his foot slipping on mud. The river was a loud trickle to their right. They had ranged onto the lands of Lord Rhode, who was well known to hate sellswords. It was wet river country, thick with mosquitos, and swampy in parts. The fish here were fat with long whiskers and tasted of mud. Harl had word of a fisher's home up ahead. Drymon was eager for a night's rest out of the damp, and Harl seemed to have a plan.
"The coif will make you look more a landed knight. Not some young sellsword."
"One can be a knight and a sellsword." Drymon was a grown man, not a kitchen boy to be ordered about.
Sir Harl slapped a bug on his neck. "Then look like it. You've just started to put on some real muscle. With your rusty ring mail shirt and dinted helm, you look less a knight and more a beefy brigand. Give me the helmet."
Drymon handed the helm over and Harl promptly threw it into the reeds where he heard the river take it with a soft plop.
Harl stomped ahead, his plate mail cuirass shined dully as tall grass whisked against it. "Once we get out of Lord Rhode's lands it'll be easier to get work. You can buy yourself a good set of armor."
Harl and Drymon joined up after the Battle of Red Orchard Run. The Lord of Smallhills, Silas Dunbar hired the young Drymon to levy his forces for the attack. Drymon himself had set the orchard ablaze and descended the battle into chaos. Drymon knew little and less as to why Lord Dunbar needed Red Orchard Run, and his heart went out to the nearby peasants who relied upon it for work and sustenance.
After the battle, Drymon had gathered unburnt (and unbloodied) apples in a barrel and rolled it to the nearby village where he met Sir Aubrey Harl, who had wandered in too late to be hired on to either side. The barrel seemed to amuse Harl who, nevertheless, still took an apple or three. The peasants gave Drymon the moniker "The Apple Knight" which amused Harl even more.
The pair wandered together for the next year but now they were low on coin. Exactly zero to tell it true. In these last months, Drymon had come to understand well the hardship that led to the baser actions of the peasantry. These were trying times that tested his knight's honor. Yes, he may have spent too much gold on women. But he'd decided that would change, and it would start with honest work.
After today.
The fisher's dwelling was built on a high boulder supported by large logs. Parts of the home seemed to be held together with driftwood. They climbed the carved stone steps, their boots slapping mud about. Drymon ran his hands on the stone, feeling the gritty lines of sediment left from the last flood.
They made it to the entrance and Harl turned. "Stand straight and stay quiet." He pounded on the door. "Queen's men! Open up!"
There was a tug and the door groaned. A stooped old lady peered up at them favoring her unclouded eye. Harl placed a hand over the door frame and the wet pungent smell of fish guts wafted out.
"Who's this?" she asked. She looked like a witch. The kind who ate mean children in the old tales.
"Queen's men, miss. We're here for -"
"Who?"
"The Queen!" Harl leaned and put his mouth near one of her fuzzy ears. "We're here to gather taxes for your lord. Lord Rhode?"
"We've no Queen. King Titus rules," she croaked.
"My lady, the Turncloak's been dead almost 10 years," Drymon piped in helpfully.
"The lad is right, miss," said Harl through gritted teeth. "Queen Elspeth sits the throne now. And we are here to collect -"
"Huh?"
Harl's grip on the doorframe tightened. "Taxes, miss! Taxes! Do you have your Lady's levy?"
Her mouth moved in a mushy way. "Taxes, you say? Come in." She turned and puttered out of the way and Harl sauntered in behind her. Drymon padded in last and saw the brittle way the old lady's white hair swayed; guilt clutched at him.
The stench of fish grew, and she appeared to be alone, a fact that sent Harl's eyes glittering. Drymon grabbed Harl's arm. "There's no honor in stealing from an old lady," he whispered.
Harl spun on him. "Where's the honor in starving? A few gold will see us fed and off to where we can find work. Or would you want to hunt on Lord Rhode's land?"
Poaching was a hanging offense, Drymon knew. He looked away. The old lady hovered over a small strongbox, protected only by a yellowed and wet rag. She stuck the rag in her mouth and flipped the lid open. Gold and gold and gold shone back at them, hypnotic like a serpent's eyes. The old branch has a small dragon's hoard.
Harl lifted his chin to the strongbox. "You should keep that safe, out of sight. You're lucky we're good Queen's men."
"'Tis safe, 'tis safe. There's a curse on this gold for those that would steal it."
"A curse?" Drymon laughed.
"Ay, a curse of despair, a curse to live a life of misery and toil. To grow old but never wise. To scrape the bottom depths of a long-felt life. Two crowns, is it?"
Harl didn't flinch. "Four. Taxes gone up."
She counted out four gold and held out the coins to Harl, but he moved aside.
"The lad carries the coin."
The gold clinked into his hand, and like that Drymon was a liar and a thief. A cursed thief.
They left the hag's home, Drymon in a stunned silence. What happened to my honor? Why didn't I say anything? Why was it so... easy?
That night they came upon an inn. Harl ate enough for both of them, laughed about curses, and pinched at serving girls, but Drymon couldn't spend his coin. He had known the plan, but had he known how it would feel? If he bought food with stolen gold he'd be eating his honor. Was that what a knight's virtue was worth, two gold?
He didn't make a sound on the stone steps as he sneaked back to the old witch's hut. He would return the gold, he'd decided. His honor, a knight's honor, was worth more than gold. The door to the hut was open and he heard snoring. The crone cranked like an old saw blade.
He entered and saw her asleep on the floor near the hearth. She had the door open to let the breeze in. Completely unafraid of brigands. Or knights.
Drymon nodded to himself, proud to not be one to taint her home with low crime. He padded over to the strong box, still unlocked. No rag this time. That was clutched in the old woman's hands.
He placed his two gold pieces back in the box. In light or dark, gold glittered on one's soul. Enough to buy three new suits of full plate armor, I bet. But he would not. He would rather starve. He would rather walk miles in his old boots. He would let the rust turn his ring mail shirt to dust. He'd made vows to his old master, Sir Cunnybush, two years dead. A few coins today were not worth all of his future glory tomorrow. Drymon decided to leave Harl at the inn and make his own way. He'd make his own story, his own glory. Starting tonight. He looked down at his rusty and spotted armor.
Sir Drymon took the strongbox.
He tried his best to pad out softly, but the clink of coins betrayed him. At the door he glanced at the old woman. Her eyes, one cloudy, one clear, were open, sharp pin pricks as she lay there. He thought for a moment that he would place the strongbox back. But only for a moment. Then when her mouth began moving, he ran. Down the stone steps and onto the muddy path, he ran.
Before, the simple clang of coin on his person made him feel strong. Tonight the old crone's shouts and pained wails in the distance gripped his heart in weakness and shame.
In the river, the Apple Knight pushed off the rocks, he kicked his feet and swung his arms for the surface. He didn't make it. His eyes bulged with the expended effort, but he knew the cause. The ring mail. It was the heaviest piece he had on and there was no time to remove the sabatons from his feet.
With his rondel, he cut off his belt and his sword fell away. I'm not fighting after this. When I get out of here, I'm heading to the encampment. I'll have a squire retrieve my armor. I just have to get this off!
Drymon bent over and let the weight of the ring mail work its way off. It was caught on something! Terror took him until he remembered the green arm band the sellswords tied on to discern friend from foe. He sliced it off, dropping the rondel in his hurry.
Drymon leaned forward and in wild panic, shook his arms and torso. He screamed; the water muted his wail. The ring mail slid off. So heavy it lifted a large cloud of silt from under the rocks on the riverbed.
He kicked up and away. The waves above descended to meet him. The golden torch light sanctified him, and a glorious feeling of victory pushed him ahead. Strength through honor, his old master's voice whispered in his mind.
Then there was another voice, a girl's. Knights are supposed to be honorable. He remembered when he'd bought his gloves, just weeks ago.
It was the morning after his 47th birthday and Drymon was hunched over the body of a young man he'd just stabbed to death. Drymon wiped blood from the cutting edge of his rondel with the boy's ragged shirt. His paunch made it a struggle to breathe, bent over as he was. He felt a pustule on his inner thigh burst. Wetness from it oozed between the fat of his belly and his thigh. He heard an old woman's laughter.
But in the corner of the room wasn't an old woman, but a girl, curled up, quivering, and crying, not laughing.
Of course. The old crone had to be long dead now but still she haunted him.
"That your brother?" Drymon recalled the answer as soon as he uttered the question.
"Y-yes, m'lord."
Drymon stood and pressed his palms into his eyes. He had a pounding headache and one of his remaining rotten teeth was loose. He stank of sweat and piss. A celebration should not end in death. Nasty business. "Why quarrel over a few silvers? Those gloves aren't worth a full crown."
"You made an accord, m-m'lord. The deal was -"
"I remember the deal! But look at the gloves!" He waved to a pair of padded gloves on the nearby table. The motion made him stagger. A drink. I need a drink.
"Those aren't your gloves, m'lord. It's those there." She nodded to a well-crafted pair close to her with steel scaling and leatherwork. The shine on the metal hurt his eyes. Drymon grunted. It was blasted hot in here. He looked down, the blood was about to reach his boots.
The boy had wanted a gold crown. He recalled the young man was a new journeyman who opened this smithy with his sister. One crown was a deal, especially for an old knight who could spread word of a new smith's good works. What was the boy's name?
"He should've told me."
"H-he tried, you -"
"Shut-shut up, damn you!"
She quailed as he fumbled through his coin purse, blinking and sweating into it. Drymon nearly tripped over the corpse as he wobbled. No gold. Only a few coppers and a silver. The whores here cost more than a new pair of gloves. They would cost less if he wasn't so fat and had less of these lesions. The stench of them... Drymon should go back to that fishing hut and burn it to ashes. Damn, the blood was on his boots.
"Knights are supposed to be honorable," she said, finding courage now. That annoyed him.
"Honor is a word, nothing more. Coin gets you more. And strength. Here!" He threw the coin purse at the girl, picked up the gloves and left.
Then immediately turned and stumbled back in, dropping a glove in the boy's blood. Dammit!
"Keep the coin, but that's my only purse."
The water pressed on Drymon. Strength through honor. He'd killed a smith who would mend him. He stole from a fisher who would feed him. How had he come so far from those words?
He would survive this and be the knight Cunny believed he could be. Curse or no, he would overcome it and his failures!
Drymon swam, pushed himself harder than he'd ever done before.
Drymon would be a knight to remember!
He felt his blood pumping, the sores on his legs ached and tore open wider, his lungs burned, his mouth open in a silent scream, no air left to push out.
Drymon would be a hero of stories!
He was only an arm's length away.
Drymon would rise from the ignoble depths of his soul!
A skiff passed overhead. Drymon gave one final kick!
He would find strength...
His hands broke the surface and grabbed the lip of the boat.
Through honor!
He pulled, the boat tottered and he lifted his head above the water.
Drymon reached forward, grabbed at a seat. He breathed the sweet night air, taking a huge gasping gulp.
Three men looked at the soggy knight, and Drymon could do nothing but smile.
They screamed.
Drymon didn't care, his lower body still in the water, he looked up at the torches on the castle wall and could swear he felt their warm glow inside him.
A sword slid into his throat.
One of the boatmen stood, turned to the shore. "They've enemies in the water!"
Drymon looked accusingly at the man with the sword. I've the sash! How dare he... but he'd cut the sash off when he removed his ring mail. The Apple Knight tried to explain, and blood poured from his mouth.
A boot sat on Drymon's face and the cold steel yanked free. He didn't feel it. Drymon slipped under, floating down softer than before. He saw the reflections in the water shift from gold... to ruby... to black.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
Drymon would drop the bridge and spit in Lord Peck's eye for the insult.
He peered up to see where the contraption would fling the body parts, but the night sky was a black pit. Waiting, watching, he heard water lap against the boat, and smelled the sharp cool air. Lord Peck had called his knights, and mercenaries like Drymon, to take back his dead brother's holding. Peck's nephew, instead of becoming a minor lord like his father and bending knee to the elder Peck, had grander ambitions. After a short, disastrous campaign, the younger Peck retreated behind his castle walls. Two months of siege later, disease and starvation had led to the nephew hurtling the dead over the walls.
A naked torso plunged into the water ahead and the rowboat rocked backward. Water splashed into Drymon's mouth and left a coppery taste. He cursed his mouth-breathing. He cursed his being here! He was a knight, not some common man-at-arms to be thrown against the walls. There were songs written about him - well... a song.
"Ak!" A sore on his leg reopened in the rocking. He could feel all the sores on his leg now, the open flesh irritated and raw. Drymon clenched his fists, spun on his oarsmen, and slapped the helm of the nearest man. "Faster, idiots! We cross the river and the castle is ours. I'll not -"
Crack! Drymon tumbled backward. He got a fleeting glimpse of blood and bone, and when he turned to grab something, anything, water rushed into his helm.
Shit.
Sir Drymon sank.
He knew, everyone knew, falling into water with armor on was death. But he'd planned for this. He hadn't donned his cuirass or greaves. Concentrate. Calm. He only need remove his helm, gloves, coif, ring mail, sabatons, shiiit!
No. Don't panic.
Panicked, he removed his helm as he hit the bottom of the river. He looked up. The surface was only two meters away. The enemy had launched parts of their dead for so long the river had a red tinge to it. Reflected in that were the torches of the castellan rippling on the surface. It gave his salvation a golden-red glow. It was marred by the kicking feet of the men in his boat swimming in retreat. Drymon turned, reaching a hand for them, but the water cut off his frenzied shout. His twisting lifted muddy silt to his waist, and the color of it raised an old memory in him. A memory of mud and blood.
"Sir Cunnybush! Sir Cunnybush, hold on, sir!" Squire Gerald Drymon was 17 years old. His body was healthy, and most of his teeth hadn't succumbed to rot. His master, Sir Cunnybush, was on his back being choked to death in the mud. Meanwhile, Squire Gerald bungled about in the nearby brush searching for his master's sword.
A brawny knight, Sir Heady of the Crown River, was on top of Sir Cunnybush. Heady had lost his helm and had his forearm dug into Cunny's neck. Heady's face purpled with the effort.
The unfortunately named Cunnybush was the only knight who saw potential in Gerald, and the squire was not about to let him die. Gerald had been a clumsy and weak page, and when he turned 14, the age a page graduates to squire, none of the knights in Lord Peck's retinue wanted him. None except Cunnybush.
Beyond this struggle, the rest of the battle seemed to be going well. A lot of the agonized shouts had a different accent to them. More oy m'guts and less ah, my guts, so that was good. What surprised Gerald the most wasn't the violence but how much these battles smelled of horse shit. He could smell it now because after groping about in the mud, it was all over him.
Gerald swept some brush aside and knelt in a muddy puddle. When he lifted his hand, it hadn't been standing water he was in, but blood. In the crimson puddle, a metal pommel winked at him. He lifted Cunnybush's sword, but someone kicked his arm and toppled the weapon back to the muck.
Sir Heady's own blonde squire tsked. "I says we let 'em fight."
Gerald looked to the sword and then to the struggle. Heady pressed down hard, a brown bubble grew from the mud where Cunny's face had been. Gerald leapt for the sword, but he caught another kick that sent him sprawling. The blonde squire pressed the advantage, booting Gerald one more time, twisting him onto his back.
The young man straddled Gerald. "You wanna die, too?" The squire punched Gerald once, twice.
"Augh!" Heady's squire groaned. He looked down to see Gerald's rondel dug up beneath his ribs.
Gerald pushed the boy, his body flopping to the mud. That was the first time he'd used the dagger on a person. He thanked his mom's memory for the gift.
Slapping the ground, Gerald searched, his eyes stung with sweat or blood, mud or worse. He found the sword, lifted it, and was proud to feel it lighter now.
The squire had done well indeed in sharpening Sir Cunny's blade. It cleaved through Heady's skull in a single swing.
Gerald flaked a bit of rust from the ring mail with his thumb. "I can take this?"
"You killed the man," Cunnybush wiped caked mud from his hair. "There's no dishonor in reaping your spoils. You could paint it green, like mine." He patted his chest, the green plate mail scratched and dulled from battle.
"I'd want something fiercer. Maybe red... and black."
My own ring mail, they'll take me seriously now.
Gerald had worn a padded doublet and leather greaves for a long time now. Hardly suitable for a squire of a landed knight. Sir Cunnybush had always provided the basics, but he expected Gerald to earn his armor.
Cunnybush was small, his hair grey, bordering on white. His small round head above his cuirass looked childish. There was a lifelong struggle for a petite man with "cunny" in his name. But despite this, the knight was well regarded by those who got to know him.
Sitting together under a tree overlooking the field of battle, Sir Cunnybush and Gerald watched the bird's feast.
A company of men marched by; one soldier smiled. "Sir Cunnybush." Other soldiers snickered and scoffed.
The knight unstrapped his gorget. "Why keep a name like Cunnybush? Tell me, Gerald."
"Your house is well-known, it's -"
"My name was nothing before me. It's a name my mother gained by being the only whore in Nutbush. Men still make japes and they ever will. No."
"I don't know, my lord."
The knight stood. "Help me with this."
Gerald rose and unbuckled the straps of the old knight's armor. "Cunnybush will be what's left of my mother and I after I'm gone. That and my stories, my legend. Of my deeds, good and bad."
Gerald looked up at the words on his lord's heraldry. A knight carrying a peasant woman over a green field.
"Stories of 'strength through honor,'" Gerald said. The words of Cunnybush's house.
"Despite her profession, my mother worked hard enough to see me page under a landed knight, Sir Drinnon."
The stories of Sir Drinnon's misadventures were well known. More than half were probably false, but they all agreed that Sir Drinnon was a walking devil.
"A complicated man," Gerald said.
"He was a monster," said Cunny with a wan smile. "Even while his deeds during the last war were heroic beyond compare. I saw him strike down six slavers to rescue a young girl who had been taken from her father. But the very next year, after the war was won and the coin gone, Sir Drinnon decided his heroism was owed a debt. We went to the father's house. When the man refused to pay, Sir Drinnon ran the girl through." Gerald set the cuirass down and the knight stood, his face a shadow. "It was another two years before I had stones enough to kill the bastard. But his stories live on. And I connected to many of them. I aim to make new stories. Good ones. Gerald, when you become a knight, you become a knight for all time, not only in war."
Cunny stared out at the battlefield and for the first time Gerald thought his master looked... old. Did his jowls always sag as much? Was it age or mud that made every line in his face stand out? Gerald did not know, but his lord had gone beyond looking distinguished as aged men do. Today, Gerald thought, Sir Cunnybush looked tired.
"The memories we have make us who we are," Cunny said, unsheathing his sword. "But the memories we share tell others who we want to be." The old knight stared into his blade. "Kneel."
Immediately Gerald knelt. He'd waited for this day. Three years he'd waited. And a long three years it had been. His favorite camp follower, Della, would surely lower her price now!
Cunny raised his sword. "Gerald Drymon, for farmers and fishers who feed you," Cunny placed the sword to Gerald's right shoulder. "For the smiths and priests who mend you," he placed it on the left. "Will you protect their lives and the lives of your lords and serve the realm with honesty and faith?"
"I will."
"Then rise, a knight of the King's Empire, Sir Gerald Drymon."
Della, here I come!
In the water, his glove tumbled to the rocks. He'd only had them two weeks! Drymon pulled at his ring mail coif, it caught on his gorget, pushing it against his chin and throat. Clamping his jaw sent sharp pain from his remaining hateful teeth. He coughed through his nose and water rushed in. He closed his eyes tight against the pain in his mouth and his burning lungs. Fool! Cut it off!
Drymon pulled his rondel and sliced the gorget's straps at his shoulders. The soft current took it somewhere behind him. Something streaked across his vision. Frantic, he yanked the coif off his head. He gave it to the river as lights raced across his eyes like flecks of gold. The pain in his mouth had sent a creeping blackness at the edges of his vision. Not gold. Stars. I'm seeing stars. This is not the gold I take...
He recalled glittering gold... and a curse.
He remembered a walk by a river when he was 27, and the guilt that would grip his heart.
"Put this on," Sir Harl said, handing him a ring mail coif.
"I've a helmet," Drymon said, his foot slipping on mud. The river was a loud trickle to their right. They had ranged onto the lands of Lord Rhode, who was well known to hate sellswords. It was wet river country, thick with mosquitos, and swampy in parts. The fish here were fat with long whiskers and tasted of mud. Harl had word of a fisher's home up ahead. Drymon was eager for a night's rest out of the damp, and Harl seemed to have a plan.
"The coif will make you look more a landed knight. Not some young sellsword."
"One can be a knight and a sellsword." Drymon was a grown man, not a kitchen boy to be ordered about.
Sir Harl slapped a bug on his neck. "Then look like it. You've just started to put on some real muscle. With your rusty ring mail shirt and dinted helm, you look less a knight and more a beefy brigand. Give me the helmet."
Drymon handed the helm over and Harl promptly threw it into the reeds where he heard the river take it with a soft plop.
Harl stomped ahead, his plate mail cuirass shined dully as tall grass whisked against it. "Once we get out of Lord Rhode's lands it'll be easier to get work. You can buy yourself a good set of armor."
Harl and Drymon joined up after the Battle of Red Orchard Run. The Lord of Smallhills, Silas Dunbar hired the young Drymon to levy his forces for the attack. Drymon himself had set the orchard ablaze and descended the battle into chaos. Drymon knew little and less as to why Lord Dunbar needed Red Orchard Run, and his heart went out to the nearby peasants who relied upon it for work and sustenance.
After the battle, Drymon had gathered unburnt (and unbloodied) apples in a barrel and rolled it to the nearby village where he met Sir Aubrey Harl, who had wandered in too late to be hired on to either side. The barrel seemed to amuse Harl who, nevertheless, still took an apple or three. The peasants gave Drymon the moniker "The Apple Knight" which amused Harl even more.
The pair wandered together for the next year but now they were low on coin. Exactly zero to tell it true. In these last months, Drymon had come to understand well the hardship that led to the baser actions of the peasantry. These were trying times that tested his knight's honor. Yes, he may have spent too much gold on women. But he'd decided that would change, and it would start with honest work.
After today.
The fisher's dwelling was built on a high boulder supported by large logs. Parts of the home seemed to be held together with driftwood. They climbed the carved stone steps, their boots slapping mud about. Drymon ran his hands on the stone, feeling the gritty lines of sediment left from the last flood.
They made it to the entrance and Harl turned. "Stand straight and stay quiet." He pounded on the door. "Queen's men! Open up!"
There was a tug and the door groaned. A stooped old lady peered up at them favoring her unclouded eye. Harl placed a hand over the door frame and the wet pungent smell of fish guts wafted out.
"Who's this?" she asked. She looked like a witch. The kind who ate mean children in the old tales.
"Queen's men, miss. We're here for -"
"Who?"
"The Queen!" Harl leaned and put his mouth near one of her fuzzy ears. "We're here to gather taxes for your lord. Lord Rhode?"
"We've no Queen. King Titus rules," she croaked.
"My lady, the Turncloak's been dead almost 10 years," Drymon piped in helpfully.
"The lad is right, miss," said Harl through gritted teeth. "Queen Elspeth sits the throne now. And we are here to collect -"
"Huh?"
Harl's grip on the doorframe tightened. "Taxes, miss! Taxes! Do you have your Lady's levy?"
Her mouth moved in a mushy way. "Taxes, you say? Come in." She turned and puttered out of the way and Harl sauntered in behind her. Drymon padded in last and saw the brittle way the old lady's white hair swayed; guilt clutched at him.
The stench of fish grew, and she appeared to be alone, a fact that sent Harl's eyes glittering. Drymon grabbed Harl's arm. "There's no honor in stealing from an old lady," he whispered.
Harl spun on him. "Where's the honor in starving? A few gold will see us fed and off to where we can find work. Or would you want to hunt on Lord Rhode's land?"
Poaching was a hanging offense, Drymon knew. He looked away. The old lady hovered over a small strongbox, protected only by a yellowed and wet rag. She stuck the rag in her mouth and flipped the lid open. Gold and gold and gold shone back at them, hypnotic like a serpent's eyes. The old branch has a small dragon's hoard.
Harl lifted his chin to the strongbox. "You should keep that safe, out of sight. You're lucky we're good Queen's men."
"'Tis safe, 'tis safe. There's a curse on this gold for those that would steal it."
"A curse?" Drymon laughed.
"Ay, a curse of despair, a curse to live a life of misery and toil. To grow old but never wise. To scrape the bottom depths of a long-felt life. Two crowns, is it?"
Harl didn't flinch. "Four. Taxes gone up."
She counted out four gold and held out the coins to Harl, but he moved aside.
"The lad carries the coin."
The gold clinked into his hand, and like that Drymon was a liar and a thief. A cursed thief.
They left the hag's home, Drymon in a stunned silence. What happened to my honor? Why didn't I say anything? Why was it so... easy?
That night they came upon an inn. Harl ate enough for both of them, laughed about curses, and pinched at serving girls, but Drymon couldn't spend his coin. He had known the plan, but had he known how it would feel? If he bought food with stolen gold he'd be eating his honor. Was that what a knight's virtue was worth, two gold?
He didn't make a sound on the stone steps as he sneaked back to the old witch's hut. He would return the gold, he'd decided. His honor, a knight's honor, was worth more than gold. The door to the hut was open and he heard snoring. The crone cranked like an old saw blade.
He entered and saw her asleep on the floor near the hearth. She had the door open to let the breeze in. Completely unafraid of brigands. Or knights.
Drymon nodded to himself, proud to not be one to taint her home with low crime. He padded over to the strong box, still unlocked. No rag this time. That was clutched in the old woman's hands.
He placed his two gold pieces back in the box. In light or dark, gold glittered on one's soul. Enough to buy three new suits of full plate armor, I bet. But he would not. He would rather starve. He would rather walk miles in his old boots. He would let the rust turn his ring mail shirt to dust. He'd made vows to his old master, Sir Cunnybush, two years dead. A few coins today were not worth all of his future glory tomorrow. Drymon decided to leave Harl at the inn and make his own way. He'd make his own story, his own glory. Starting tonight. He looked down at his rusty and spotted armor.
Sir Drymon took the strongbox.
He tried his best to pad out softly, but the clink of coins betrayed him. At the door he glanced at the old woman. Her eyes, one cloudy, one clear, were open, sharp pin pricks as she lay there. He thought for a moment that he would place the strongbox back. But only for a moment. Then when her mouth began moving, he ran. Down the stone steps and onto the muddy path, he ran.
Before, the simple clang of coin on his person made him feel strong. Tonight the old crone's shouts and pained wails in the distance gripped his heart in weakness and shame.
In the river, the Apple Knight pushed off the rocks, he kicked his feet and swung his arms for the surface. He didn't make it. His eyes bulged with the expended effort, but he knew the cause. The ring mail. It was the heaviest piece he had on and there was no time to remove the sabatons from his feet.
With his rondel, he cut off his belt and his sword fell away. I'm not fighting after this. When I get out of here, I'm heading to the encampment. I'll have a squire retrieve my armor. I just have to get this off!
Drymon bent over and let the weight of the ring mail work its way off. It was caught on something! Terror took him until he remembered the green arm band the sellswords tied on to discern friend from foe. He sliced it off, dropping the rondel in his hurry.
Drymon leaned forward and in wild panic, shook his arms and torso. He screamed; the water muted his wail. The ring mail slid off. So heavy it lifted a large cloud of silt from under the rocks on the riverbed.
He kicked up and away. The waves above descended to meet him. The golden torch light sanctified him, and a glorious feeling of victory pushed him ahead. Strength through honor, his old master's voice whispered in his mind.
Then there was another voice, a girl's. Knights are supposed to be honorable. He remembered when he'd bought his gloves, just weeks ago.
It was the morning after his 47th birthday and Drymon was hunched over the body of a young man he'd just stabbed to death. Drymon wiped blood from the cutting edge of his rondel with the boy's ragged shirt. His paunch made it a struggle to breathe, bent over as he was. He felt a pustule on his inner thigh burst. Wetness from it oozed between the fat of his belly and his thigh. He heard an old woman's laughter.
But in the corner of the room wasn't an old woman, but a girl, curled up, quivering, and crying, not laughing.
Of course. The old crone had to be long dead now but still she haunted him.
"That your brother?" Drymon recalled the answer as soon as he uttered the question.
"Y-yes, m'lord."
Drymon stood and pressed his palms into his eyes. He had a pounding headache and one of his remaining rotten teeth was loose. He stank of sweat and piss. A celebration should not end in death. Nasty business. "Why quarrel over a few silvers? Those gloves aren't worth a full crown."
"You made an accord, m-m'lord. The deal was -"
"I remember the deal! But look at the gloves!" He waved to a pair of padded gloves on the nearby table. The motion made him stagger. A drink. I need a drink.
"Those aren't your gloves, m'lord. It's those there." She nodded to a well-crafted pair close to her with steel scaling and leatherwork. The shine on the metal hurt his eyes. Drymon grunted. It was blasted hot in here. He looked down, the blood was about to reach his boots.
The boy had wanted a gold crown. He recalled the young man was a new journeyman who opened this smithy with his sister. One crown was a deal, especially for an old knight who could spread word of a new smith's good works. What was the boy's name?
"He should've told me."
"H-he tried, you -"
"Shut-shut up, damn you!"
She quailed as he fumbled through his coin purse, blinking and sweating into it. Drymon nearly tripped over the corpse as he wobbled. No gold. Only a few coppers and a silver. The whores here cost more than a new pair of gloves. They would cost less if he wasn't so fat and had less of these lesions. The stench of them... Drymon should go back to that fishing hut and burn it to ashes. Damn, the blood was on his boots.
"Knights are supposed to be honorable," she said, finding courage now. That annoyed him.
"Honor is a word, nothing more. Coin gets you more. And strength. Here!" He threw the coin purse at the girl, picked up the gloves and left.
Then immediately turned and stumbled back in, dropping a glove in the boy's blood. Dammit!
"Keep the coin, but that's my only purse."
The water pressed on Drymon. Strength through honor. He'd killed a smith who would mend him. He stole from a fisher who would feed him. How had he come so far from those words?
He would survive this and be the knight Cunny believed he could be. Curse or no, he would overcome it and his failures!
Drymon swam, pushed himself harder than he'd ever done before.
Drymon would be a knight to remember!
He felt his blood pumping, the sores on his legs ached and tore open wider, his lungs burned, his mouth open in a silent scream, no air left to push out.
Drymon would be a hero of stories!
He was only an arm's length away.
Drymon would rise from the ignoble depths of his soul!
A skiff passed overhead. Drymon gave one final kick!
He would find strength...
His hands broke the surface and grabbed the lip of the boat.
Through honor!
He pulled, the boat tottered and he lifted his head above the water.
Drymon reached forward, grabbed at a seat. He breathed the sweet night air, taking a huge gasping gulp.
Three men looked at the soggy knight, and Drymon could do nothing but smile.
They screamed.
Drymon didn't care, his lower body still in the water, he looked up at the torches on the castle wall and could swear he felt their warm glow inside him.
A sword slid into his throat.
One of the boatmen stood, turned to the shore. "They've enemies in the water!"
Drymon looked accusingly at the man with the sword. I've the sash! How dare he... but he'd cut the sash off when he removed his ring mail. The Apple Knight tried to explain, and blood poured from his mouth.
A boot sat on Drymon's face and the cold steel yanked free. He didn't feel it. Drymon slipped under, floating down softer than before. He saw the reflections in the water shift from gold... to ruby... to black.
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