An Uncertain Choice

I spotted the dark cloak and hat of the bailiff, and found he was adding more kindling to the fire.

“Bailiff!” I shouted. “You must stop this cruelty.”

Only the children on the steps heard me. They lifted their faces to watch me expectantly. I cupped the cheek of the nearest urchin and smoothed my fingers over his filthy skin. He peered up at me with adoration, and I managed a small smile for him. He shouldn’t have to witness such a display of inhumanity. No one should. Ever.

With a shudder, I crossed my arms over my chest and attempted to ward off the dark chill that came from remembering the torture I’d witnessed four years ago after my parents’ funeral. The gruesome picture was stitched into my memory like embroidery threads within a tapestry. I wanted no more memories like that one.

“Stop!” I yelled again. “As Lady Rosemarie Montfort, your ruler, I command you to cease. Immediately.”

This time, my declaration caused heads to turn my direction. The women closest to the guildhall began to whisper and grab the arms of those around them. Some of the men bowed. But the petty constable continued to crank the rope, and the bailiff tossed another log onto the fire, sending sparks shooting high into the air.

I uttered an unladylike cry of frustration and raised my eyes to the grand castle on the bluff that towered as a lord over the town. The outer walls rose as if one with the rocky cliffs, making the fortress impenetrable on three sides. A moat and the town provided the defense on the fourth side.

If only I’d thought to bring one of my guards. Even now, I could make out the gleaming helmet of the soldier on duty at the gatehouse. But I’d never had need of protection in my town, among the people who loved me.

A glint of silver along the fringes of the gathering caught my eye. A short distance from the guildhall stood a war horse mounted by a knight. Dressed in his plate armor, the coat of arms on the horse’s blanket was unfamiliar — ?red with a fire-breathing dragon emblazoned upon it.

How long had the warrior been watching the proceedings?

A shimmer of unease slipped up the veil trailing over my plaited hair and pricked the back of my neck. None of the neighboring lords had threatened Ashby. The land had been at peace. So who was this knight, and what did his presence in my town mean?

As if sensing my question, the knight shifted to face me. Through the narrow slit in his steel helmet, his eyes were dark and unreadable. Even so, there was something kind and respectful about his posture. He surprised me by bowing his head and paying me homage.

Then he lifted the long halberd at his side, dug his spurs into his horse, and charged forward toward the center green. At the heavy thudding of his steed and the sight of his weapon, those in his path fell back to make room for him. He thrust forward like a knight at a jousting tournament.

My muscles tightened. What did he intend to do? I wanted to call out, to question him, to demand that he explain his presence in my town. But as he made a direct path to the cauldron of bubbling water, I found myself praying he’d succeed where I had failed to bring an end to the torture.

With a precision and strength that no doubt came from years of training, the knight slashed the halberd’s axe-head into the knotted rope binding the criminal on the ground, freeing first one hand then the other. Within seconds, the man was sitting and frantically working to unbind his feet.

The knight shifted to the bubbling cauldron. Again, he lifted his halberd, and this time swung around the fluke that hooked into the metal chain suspending the pot from the tripod. The knight gave his horse a kick that caused the beast to jolt forward. The swift jerk was all it took for the tripod to tip and then topple to the ground. As the cauldron crashed, boiling water splashed over the fire and onto the bailiff and other townspeople, who jumped back with cries. The poor old man who’d been inside, naked except for the breech cloth at his waist, rolled into a quivering heap.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the bailiff called, brushing at the splatters of hot water soaking into his hose.

The knight steered his horse toward the newly freed criminal. The old man pushed himself up and held out shaking hands that were tied together at the wrist. His face was wreathed in gratitude. “Thank you, sir,” he croaked.

Before the bailiff could protest further, the knight unsheathed his sword and slit the rope at the man’s wrists. Then he reached down, clasped the old man’s arm, and hoisted him onto the horse behind him. Though red and raw, the criminal wrapped his arms around the knight’s armor and clung to him.

Only then did I dare to take a breath. The old man suffered burns and blisters from his ordeal, but he was free from his torture at last.