Consummate devotion

Bayard stood glaring at the capitol city of Warcester alight with dim lantern glow, and the magnificent torches of the front gate. His breath steaming in the crisp early morning air, and the dying flicker of the camp fire dancing with his shadow. His men all slept, and snored like wild beasts, while this night Bayard could not sleep. He knew that today his young bride Jolecia is due to be deflowered by the wretched King Marnekin. The very King that knighted him and bestowed the lordship over Tranmere upon him for his bravery during the battle of Red river. The very king that funded his lavish wedding in the great hall of Tranmere, where he gave a warm and heartfelt speech to him and Jolecia, followed by a generous gift, and royal decree.

"Bayard my son... your kingdom and its King are most proud of the man you are, and the bravery for which you fought. The crown is indebted to you, and the legend of your name will echo the walls of Warcester for eternity. I look upon you and the beautiful Jolecia with favor and gratitude unbounded. The house of Bayard Grenyal and the castle land of Tranmere will always be in grace with god and the crown. Here, here!" King Marnekin bequeathed raising his grail in toast, immediately met with applause and positive banter.

The memory of that day only a fort night past, brought bile to Bayard's throat and churned his stomach with the vigor of an eager stable-hand. He released an audible growl under his breath, and through clenched teeth. He couldn't believe that the man he desired only to be, as in life and in practice could have turned out to be a villain more deplorable than any from story books read to him as a child. He stabbed his sword aggressively into the hard cold earth, and looked to the castle towering mystically on the cliff ledge, just a short half-day ride away.

"Marnekin, you foul man, you foul soul. I watched your face and heard your words. Tears moistened my face, and the soft delicate cheeks of my love Jolecia. We believed you true and generous. It was a miss in judgment cursing me as I stand and speak to the wind. In our bewitched state of favor from a noble man, a man of honor and grace did we miss the gleam in your envious eye. The one that looked swollen with pride, and joyous glee, held no more than a plotting and deceitful scheme. In the name of my father Bayard Grenyal the third, I will not let you soil my love. I will pierce your shallow and withered heart with every inch of my blade, before you rest one finger on the fair skin of Jolecia. If you believe that the men you employ to protect you are capable of stopping me, take count! This I have done, and a wise man which now I doubt you to be, would have as well. The amount of men I have already left in my path dulls my zeal not a pence. The ambush you lay at Dornell woods... every man and boy slain, to wit no casualties of my own. The cowards at Benly bridge... sadly no match for even a small band of chamber maids... and the very place you certainly deemed my gravesite, the ambush at Crown gulch... the battle was hardy, and the tolls shared I do concede, but here we stand just below your window ledge, and here I am ready to take your last breath!"

The passionate oath to slay Marnekin and the bright rays from the rising sun, woke Bayard's men, they all started to emerge from their shelters and stretch.

"You did not sleep Bayard?" asked his first in command and best friend Garen Helm.

Bayard stood now silent, his hands resting across the butt of his bastard sword.

"No Garen, I will sleep only when Jolecia and I lay together, warm, and redeemed from this atrocity, or if by cruel fate I meet the blade of a worthy man, that steals my life, and damns her to fulfill Marnekin's deplorable acts. Let us move on Warcester devout in our purpose for gracing her courts!" Bayard yelled while ripping his sword from the soil and thrusting it toward the sky.

All of his men grabbed their weapons and armor, and feverishly mounted their horses, vital and righteous to ride with this man. A man of character and devotion, a man that never asks more than he can give, a man driven with no care of mortality toward the salvation of his only love. Bayard lashed the reigns, and like a rumbling stampede he and his men started toward Warcester.

Up in the window of the royal tower a shadowy figure stood staring down at the road far below... "He is coming... he has made it." King Marnekin, whispered to himself in dismay.