l: Death of A True Man

Part One
Adventures of a Knight

Chapter One
The Death of a True Man

IN THE DAYS BEFORE THE REIGN of King Richard l, a great battle was raging between the murderous Saracen warriors and King Henry’s English Knights. It was a fierce combat, one that tasked the bravery and prowess of every knight fighting in it. The fated battlefield upon which this mortal combat was fought lay gleaming red under the summer sun, dyed with the blood of both
traitor and patriot, the only price of real victory.
         The sun was shining down upon the fighting men, outlining their silver armor. Their bespattered hauberks gleamed reddish-orange in the yellow pools of light, and their red plumes, no longer bushy and grand, lay damp and sweaty on their battered armor.
         Only one knight there, swinging his sword with the force of a gladiator, seemed yet strong. He was a knight that the Saracens had learned to avoid the hard way. Bravely he forced his way through unyielding groups of enemies; bravely he crushed down his angry antagonists. Even his beaten opponents had to admit that he was full of courage, though they would rather die before they would openly say it. His name was Sir Philip Elziver of Krona, and he was most known for his bravery and true staunchness. The King, Henry Vll, had made him a Chief Advisor for his unwavering courage, declaring that Sir Philip was the truest knight he knew.
Beside him, in that red field, fought the father of the Black Knight, later to be renowned in great prowess and courage. Though he fought hard, his strength was sinking slowly from weariness. Many others were there; the fathers of great paladins, destined to outshine their fathers in deeds of arms; relations, uncles, grandfathers, those who had families depending on them— they had answered freedom’s call, and were ready to lay down their lives for the good of England.
There was another knight, called Henry of the Oaks, who was lying down on the turf, gasping for breath and looking as if he were half-dead. He was indeed in the last stages of death, due to a treacherous Saracen spear that had run him through. Groaning and sighing, he lay on the turf, the pain of hunger plainly engraved on his pallid countenance, his eyes betraying his vain hope to stop his groans. With a great effort he managed to sit up, only to fall back down again with an anguished cry of pain. Finally he sank down, overcome by extreme pain and burning thirst. As he groaned, he saw Sir Philip winding his way through the dead knights on the field.
         Slowly Sir Henry raised his arm. The champion clad in bespattered silver saw Sir Henry’s feeble effort and rode over to him. After a searching look around him for any wandering Saracens, who were most known for their treacherous acts, the knight dismounted and walked towards his companion with a small cruse in his hand. A large gash in his arm, with a broken arrow sticking out of it, revealed that he, too, carried bloody wounds.
         “You have need of this. Take, and drink,” he said, holding out in his hand the half-full cruse.
         Sir Henry nodded slowly, and answered faintly, “If I take not from you.”
         Now Sir Philip himself was burning with thirst. But he had always been taught to own his fellow creatures better than he, and so with a smiling countenance he handed over his last draught to his prostrate companion.
         “Nay, drink, my friend. You have more need of it than I.”
         Sir Henry watched Philip’s eyes carefully and noted there a hungry flicker of thirst. Seeing that, he tried to refuse the cruse, but his companion would not hear of it.
         “Take it, friend. I must be going. There are yet Saracens to destroy. Perchance we shall win the day. Ah, there is my lord the King! I must hasten.”
         Sir Henry, after a last faint refusal, drank the refreshing liquid with a sigh of contentment. Handing it back, he tried to thank his friend.
         “Nay. ’Tis naught. You would do it for me. Now shall I go.”
         Sir Henry nodded and sighed. “Take care, my friend,” he said again, faintly. “I shall not last long.”
         Both knights did not observe as a silent Saracen warrior crept up to the back of Philip’s horse and, unobserved by the two knights, waved his arms wildly to his companion, who was standing behind a clump of furze bushes. Evidently he had been watching his opportunity for a long time. The man he nodded to, a sinister-looking Saracen spearman, mounted his horse and grinned back at his fellow-warrior. Riding off in the direction of the kneeling knight, he tugged on his belt and took out a dagger, which he instantly replaced.
         “Nay,” the Saracen warrior heard him say, “I shall not need it. I need but to ride over them.” An immense look of pleasure spread over his hard features, and he rode off quickly and quietly toward Philip.
         Meanwhile, Sir Philip was staring at his friend in surprise.
         “Is your wound that serious? Ah, my friend, you must let me help you.”
         “Stay not for me!” Sir Henry begged earnestly. “You must mount and be off. It is not safe here.”
         Philip frowned and prepared to stand up. “Must I leave you? Let me bring you onto my saddle, where you shall be safe.”
         The paladin shook his head.
         “My friend, look around you. Hear the wounded knights groaning on the field; look as they send forth piteous cries. You cannot save any of them. Neither can you save me. Now depart!”
         Philip reluctantly prepared to obey his command when he heard a crash of hooves behind him.
         “Sir Philip! —”
         But it was too late for Sir Henry to warn the knight who kneeled beside him. The Saracen horse pounded over him, onto him—there was the death-groan of a great knight—a great cry of English knights who stood paralyzed, watching their champion die—and Sir Philip of Elziver lay on the scarlet turf, now stained with his own blood, never to rise again.

~*~

         In the clear sunlight of the afternoon, a silent crowd had gathered to solemnly witness the funeral of their dead hero, Sir Philip of Elziver. Many of Philip’s comrades-in-arms were there, their wives hanging onto their arms, and their children shyly peeping out from beneath them. Underneath the archway of the small country church, over a hundred were bowing their heads and trying to grasp the fact that the greatest hero in England had died.
         Among the first in the front of the church, there was a lady in a black cloak, holding in her arms a quiet young child. It was Lady Evangeline, the wife of Sir Philip of Elziver. The child in her arms was Sir Philip’s son, young Gadahin Elziver, destined to eclipse the fame and glory of even his heroic father.
         The venerable words of an ancient, white-bearded minister standing in a small pulpit at the front of the little church brought back the people’s thoughts. “Have we not a death in sight also, my friends? Hearken, you whose lance hath brought victory, you whose hand hath brought death to fierce enemies, what have you to be proud of? Nay, you have no cause to boast. It is God alone Who hath helped you this day.” A look of sorrow was on the pious old man’s wrinkled face, and in his hand he held a faded, old book— the revered Holy Scripture.
         The scene we enter so suddenly is the funeral service of Sir Philip Elziver, the knight who gave his last draught to help a fellow-soldier, and the knight who gave his first and only life to his land with cheerful unselfishness. The field that became his deathbed, his companions too had made theirs. On that stained turf they fell together—giving their life in exchange for the freedom of the next generation. For this ultimate sacrifice, the Saracen war was won for the English, and the jewel of freedom shone once more bright, full of hope and promise.
Only a week had passed since the death of Sir Philip of Elziver. In his hometown of Krona, nearly all the inhabitants, from lords to serfs, had congregated to the little church in the town square, to pay their last respects to their hero. Sir Philip had been named in all of England as the greatest knight living who could wield a spear. Since his death, none could take his place, not even King Henry himself.
         “The price of victory is great, my friends, but do not think this brave knight gave his life to its cause for nothing. Freedom, the right to live in England, the safety of our wives and children—this he had a hand in giving to us all. The price of victory has a great reward, e’en greater than itself.”
         Many stood listening to the old man’s wise and quiet words with glistening eyes. Sir Philip had been renowned in battle; he had fought twice, and in the first battle, he had come home triumphant, borne on the shoulders of his merry friends. But in the second, he was borne home in a white litter, his sword lying, still and cold, at his side. Yet he had fallen in a great way, in the field of battle, and no man would ever forget the supreme sacrifice he had made for his homeland.
         Sir Philip left behind a wife and one son. His wife was named Evangeline, and his son, hardly past two years of age, was called Gadahin. Lady Evangeline was the last in her illustrious family. She had no parents, for they had died of the plague which seized England so frequently in its’ cold, deathly hand; and the generous parents of Sir Philip had all died a while ago. As a result, she was heir to an immense fortune, which included many great lands that her son would inherit when he grew of age, or as soon as she died. King Henry had granted this, for love of the noble knight who died for him; and she remained baroness and baron, as it were, of all her lands. (In the early medieval days, it was only a great knight or lord who could hold immense quantities of land.)
         After graciously hearing the many condolences that were so generously bestowed upon her, she had gone home from the funeral with a heavy heart. Philip was no longer there to greet her; no one welcomed her but her faithful slaves. She would never marry again; for she had vowed a long time ago that, if she were widowed, she would keep the name of Elziver, if only to remember the great knight who had died in the Saracen battle.

~*~

IN the years to come, Lady Evangeline found young Gadahin her source of comfort and solace. He was a prop, although young, upon which she could lean; for already he had the quiet and thoughtful ways of his father, and his mind was set upon becoming a great knight.
         At age five, Gadahin was sent off to become a page and learn the arts of knighthood. He served in the kitchen of the illustrious though youthful Lord Percy, and learned the art of mannerism and grace; such employment he kept until he was thirteen. Then, he was sent home to his mother, where he studied Greek, Latin, and other things such as the laws of chivalry demanded to complete the learning of a good and gallant knight.
         Gadahin’s favorite amusements were his flute, the sword, archery, and the lance. Often he would tramp out onto the beautiful wooded lands that would one day be his, and sit down with his flute and his books in hand. He knew the holes where rabbits housed, and the tiny caves where field animals lived; since he was a quiet lad, many of these animals would do their usual tasks under his very nose. Sometimes he would bring his arrows, and shoot at a target in the distance; so often did he do this that he became very good in that art. It was one of his ambitions to shoot as well as the archer Robin Hood, who was just starting to become famous. Robin Hood’s tale, according to history, had not been chronicled till the 1400s’; but he was alive and hearty far before his story was famous throughout England. Gadahin also wore a sword on his belt, constantly bringing it wherever he went. He could whip it out and do wonders with it, so skillfully did he use it. But the thing he most loved and excelled in was the lance. It was his favorite weapon, as it had been his father’s. In the court of Lord Percy, he had learned much about it, for that lord loved it as heartily as his pupil did. Never a day would pass but he would spend ‘a shadow’—an hour or more—in the bailey or the courtyard, his lance in hand and his face aglow with pleasure. Sometimes he would send a cordial invitation by one of his servants to several young sons of a few neighboring peasants. Of course, they never failed to be there, and when they came, the squire treated them as well as if the bluest blood ran in their veins. The peasant boys were loath to leave, since both Gadahin and the boys benefited by the mock battles in both skill and might.
         The little squire’s looks were as promising as his intelligence. Golden hair clustered about his forehead in small, tight ringlets. His eyes were dark green, the color of jade, and were always thoughtful-looking and full of serene contemplation. Gadahin was also tall for his age, well built, and as active as a boy could be. By fifteen he was powerful looking, and measured six feet and two inches. He was a thoughtful, quiet, and diligent youth, taking care to keep to his studies and please his mother. At a young age, he became proficient in many things; when he was only ten, he could read Greek fluently, answer catechism questions without hesitation, and listened diligently when his mother read from the family Bible. His favorite instrument was a small wooden flute, which he constantly played. Daily he went out with the servants on his white palfrey, riding wherever they allowed him, from market to a neighbor’s manor.
         There was one manor, gorgeous to see, that stood on a hill near the road that he often traversed. It belonged to the Truros of Krona; a family whose distant relation had died in the same war wherein died Sir Philip of Elziver, Gadahin’s father. Lady Evangeline took her son to this manor once every five months, and there they would stay for a fortnight or two. In the manor, there was a young lad named Percert Truro, the son of the knight of the manor, who was quite a little knave. He was spoiled and often acted as a coward and a bully. However, when he wanted to be good, he could be very, very good, but when he was bad, he was horrid. He often chose to exhibit his best side when the Elzivers’ visited. As a result, Gadahin knew little of Percert’s real self. Also, it was only the fact that Sir Philip had died beside the uncle of the Truro House that kept the two families close.
         Besides this son, the Truros had a young daughter, who was a delightful little lass, unspoiled and of a sweet, shy nature. Her name was Priscilla, and she was often called Maid Priscilla, because she sewed and bustled about like any little housekeeper, deft in many ways. Little Priscilla and Gadahin were very good friends, and Gadahin preferred her company above Percert’s when he went bird nesting in the Truro lands.
         The manor house, called Truro Hall, was beautiful. Fountains decorated each corner of the house, and the walkway to the living quarters was a pergola of roses and pansies. Quaint little stones and pots adorned every corner of the immense gardens, and there was a huge stable in the back with nearly every kind of horse living in England. The interior of the Hall was as imposing and important as it was beautiful.

~*~

Many times Lady Evangeline was concerned for the future of her son. She knew that he had no father to help him through his younger years, and she sorrowed much that he would never know what it was to have one, for Philip had been killed when Gadahin was only three. But when she saw him, coming into her rooms with armloads of wildflowers and a shy “I picked this for you, Mother”—when she looked out the window and saw him completely absorbed in a traveling minstrel’s tale—when she saw him in the bailey, his face shining and his lance glinting, she felt thankful that both his parents had not left him completely.

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **