Chapter 1354: On the road(2)

Had Vilon been on foot, he would have stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his squire in sheer disbelief. But he was mounted atop Chestnut,much to the stallion’s restless, ear-pinning dismay, all the knight could do was shift uncomfortably in the saddle, his jaw slacking as he rocked back and forth with the horse’s heavy stride.

The King’s son was named Basil, too? Could it truly be...?

He thought about it, and chuckled.

As if, Vilon thought, killing a sudden, nervous chuckle by flopping his lips against the cold winter wind. He could never be the same boy.

’’No he was not lad’’

His own father might have called him a dull-witted fool a thousand times in his youth, but Vilon was certainly not stupid enough to believe that. A royal prince of the realm, stopping in the blood and mud of a battle’s wake to deign a nameless, dirt-caked hedge knight the time of day? It was preposterous.

"But ser!" Owen insisted, jogging a half-step faster to keep up with Chestnut’s shoulder. "You said his name was Basil! And the Prince’s name is Basil!"

"Lad, do you have any idea how many people share the exact same name in this grand, wide world?" Vilon replied, shaking his head. "Even more so among the high nobility?" He didn’t blame the boy for his ignorance, of course; Owen had spent his life pulling weeds in a peasant’s field, completely unaware of how names held power, fashion, and precedent.

"Likely some minor northern lord tried to curry favor with the royal house by naming his newborn after the King’s heir," Vilon explained reasonably. "Besides, what would a prince of the blood be doing wandering aimlessly through the corpses after a slaughter, I ask you?"

"But ser—"

"Enough of that, lad," Vilon admonished gently, cutting the boy off before his imagination ran completely wild. "Even if what you say were true, I ask you: what weight does it actually hold? Be he a high prince or a minor lord’s third son, he showed me genuine kindness when I was low. What matters is what a man does and says, not how blue the blood in his veins happens to be when he does it. He earned the right to be called a good man, no matter his identity.

A man can be noble of blood only by the accident of his birth, but anyone can be noble of heart if he truly desires it."

That gave Owen serious pause. The boy walked in silence for a long time, chewing on the thought while his eyes scanned the horizon like a curious squirrel.

Finally, he looked back up. "Ser?"

"Yes, lad?"

"What did he say to you, then? The... the not-King’s son?"

"Basil," Vilon corrected firmly. "Call him by his name, Owen. I’ll not have a benefactor dishonored by mere if-be titles."

The Bringer of Mercy knew how little warmth was left in this brutal world; if men started treating those who wielded genuine kindness with casual dismissal, they would have only themselves to blame when the world turned cold and merciless in return.

"He was a truly noble soul, both of blood and of heart," Vilon said softly, looking out over Chestnut’s ears. "He aided me when I was sore, sick, and lower than dirt. He helped me up, and he charged me to be a good knight."

"A good knight, ser?"

"Aye. A good knight. Us wandering hedge-knights can be the noblest of the whole lot, you know, lad?"

Owen blinked, genuinely surprised. "Why, ser? You don’t even have a castle or a tent for that matter...."

"Because a knight sworn to a lord’s banner becomes that lord’s sword," Vilon explained, his tone growing solemn. "He must tend to his master’s every whim, be it righteous or wicked. He swears oaths that constantly contradict one another. What happens to a sworn knight when his lord commands him to burn down a peasant village simply because the poor bastards couldn’t pay their taxes during a drought?"

That made the squire think long and hard once more, his brow furrowing as he processed the bleak reality of lordly rule. "What about us, then?"

"We are free, Owen. Free, and wanderers," Vilon said, a touch of quiet pride in his voice. "We have no sworn oaths hanging over our necks save for the ones the five gods anointed us with. We draw our steel only when our own conscience demands it. If we choose to do good or evil, it is entirely by our own desires. We are the bridge between the high lords in their stone halls and the low-born in the dirt. We deliver justice and offer aid where the great lords never bother to look."

...and we take whatever meager coin we can get for whatever honest work comes our way, Vilon added silently.

When he had traveled the roads with his father, they had taken on a great deal of odd, miserable jobs. The pay had been pitiful and the work thoroughly unpleasant, but Vilon’s father had always made a point to ask around at the local taverns first, a tavernkeeper would usually give you a small handful of copper, a warm hearth, and a waterskin filled with cheap ale for a day’s labor.

"Ours is a hard life, lad," Vilon concluded. "A bloody, cold life. But it can be a good one, nonetheless, if a man wishes it to be."

Owen nodded gladly to that, a bright smile returning to his face. "I’m going to be a noble knight one day, ser! I’ll help every person who needs a hand."

Vilon nodded back with a fond smile, though a beat later he remembered that the boy was still just a squire, and that ever since taking him on, all Vilon had actually provided was knee-deep mud and freezing nights.

"Lad?" Vilon asked quietly.

"Yes, ser?"

"Do you truly never regret it? Leaving your family behind to follow me?"

This time, Owen didn’t think long, hard, or cautious. In fact, he didn’t seem to hesitate for a single heartbeat.

"No, ser. I don’t," the boy said honestly. "I get homesick, surely. But I don’t regret it. The road is hard and long, but I’ve never had so much adventure in all my life! I miss them, but one day I’ll ride back to my village wearing proper iron armor on a fine horse, and I’ll tell them all my stories. I’ll tell them about the high roads, the bandits, and the great refugee camps. Then I’ll tell them stories of my own, all my grand feats, and yours too, ser! Of the greatest knight that ever was! And... perhaps even stories of your father!"

Vilon let out a dry, hollow laugh. "I fear there won’t be a single kind story to tell about him, Owen."

The boy paused, looking up. "Why, ser? Was he not a good knight?"

"He was my father, yes," Vilon murmured, his eyes darkening as old, bitter memories bubbled to the surface. Though, in truth, the old bastard had never even been certain of that. He had spent Vilon’s entire childhood suspecting he was merely feeding and raising another man’s stray whelp.Perhaps that was why he was so angry all the time.

"The road was brutal when I was a boy," Vilon said, the words spilling out of him like a long-dammed river. He had never spoken of his father to a living soul, save for muttering to Old Chestnut late at night.But now they were both under the dirt.

"As hard as yours is now, but the company was ten times worse. My father held the title of knight, but he was neither valorous nor just. He never offered praise, nor did he ever raise a finger to help anyone who couldn’t pay him first or lay with him abed."

Vilon squeezed his reins tight. "He would spend what little coin we had for food on cheap tavern wine by night, and then by morrow he’d wake up with a roaring head, lament that he was furious, poor and hungry , and then he would kick me out into the frost to go beg or steal something to eat. And when I’d finally drag myself back to camp, I’d find the bastard munching on some roast fowl he’d hidden for himself, and he’d give me a heavy clout on the ear for coming back empty-handed.Jokes on him though, I am a good hunter now."

Owen stayed completely silent, his eyes wide as he listened to his master’s past.

"One time," Vilon continued, his voice tight as now that the door was open all kind of things flew out, "he beat me bloody and raw because I was accused me stealing a meat pie from a tavernkeeper. He forced me to clean out the pig pens for three full days to pay off the debt. And when I finally crawled back to our fire at night, I saw him eating a slice of the very same woman’s cake. He didn’t save me a single crumb."

He spat into the roadside weeds. "You might say he trained me well with steel, but only because it gave him a good excuse to beat me black and blue during practice. He didn’t even need a reason sometime, growing too tall or eating too much bread was fair enough cause for him."

Owen swallowed hard, looking down at his own stout ash stick. "He... he truly was not a good knight, ser."

The boy walked a few paces in solemn silence before speaking again, his tone dropping soft and low. "My father died when I was very small. Taken by a sickness in early spring... the village elders called it the Spring Plague. It came to the nearby villages too....

He went hot as an oven for three long days, until he finally turned ice-cold. We buried him right behind the spring at the edge of our field.Mama said he was a good man, and so did my elder brother too.

Never knew him, but he must have been big to father me, mama said I nearly torn her open when I come out. Though neither my brother or sister are big like me’’’

Both squire and knight fatherless whelp then, Vilon thought as the wind roared. Though he did not say that.

Might the two of them had more in common with one another than he thought.

Still, the best thing of both, was they wished to do good. And of course win tourneys.

’’Ser!Ser!Look!’’ Owen said pointing on the horizon.

And as Vilon’s head rose, indeed he saw.

It seemed their walk was not for naught, as on the horizon the contours of a village indeed sprouted up like a blooming flower.