Dark Knight

Staring down at the cold, stone floor, nothing was coming back to him. Nothing at all. Hard, jagged shackles stretched his arms out in a cross, his feet chained to the floor. His muscles faltered as the darkness in his mind stretched deeper. He couldn’t remember how he got here and had no recollection of the accusations facing him. All he knew was that death was staring at him less than twenty-four hours away, baring its jaws in a faceless grin.

The morning sun peeked through the dungeon’s bars, splashing the dark stone in three faint pale stripes. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to close his eyes, to drift off to the company of friends within his dreams. To stand with them on the field once more, to raise their swords at all who dared oppose them. They were strong and fierce. They were infallible. He wanted that brotherhood again, but they were gone. He alone carried the burden of their fate and for that, he could not rest until he remembered everything. He clenched his teeth in anguish as he strained his weary mind to recall what went so wrong.

Exhausted, his head dropped as air shot from his lungs. The past sixth months were a mystery. Gone. Stolen from his head. The last moment of clarity was of snow in the courtyard. As sweat trickled down his face and chest, he knew the snows were a lifetime away.

The door to his cell clanged and swung open with a groan, snapping him back to reality. The weight of his body dragged against the chains, his chin sagged inches from his chest. He looked wearily at the intruder. The man wore a white tunic and brown knickers. A ring on the middle finger decorated his right hand and bore the insignia of the magistrate. The man looked at the bowl of slop by his feet. “Not very hungry, are we, Sir Edward?”

Sir Edward muttered.

“What did you say?” the magistrate asked, stepping closer.

With a weak and rasp voice, Sir Edward managed, “A little difficult to eat like this.” He wiggled his hands in the chains and struggled to pull himself upright. Raising his head, he ingested a deep breath, noticing how fowl he, and the cell, reeked. The stench of death hovered close.

“Yes, well,” the magistrate replied impatiently, “it is time for you to face your king and confess your sins.” Two guards stepped through the door and briskly walked toward him. They pulled the pins from each shackle around his ankles, then rose and removed them from his wrists. He crashed to the stone floor. The guards swiftly grabbed his tattered garments and dragged him to his feet. He found balance elusive and hoped the guards wouldn’t let him go. The magistrate marched through the cell door with the guards escorting Sir Edward close behind.

The walk was long and painful. Every muscle from his back down through his feet screamed. Somewhere along the dark corridors Sir Edward managed to find a hint of strength and drew himself away from the biting grip of the guards. They fell back a few paces, carefully watching his every move, and every twitch.

As they rounded another corner, Sir Edward recognized the massive oak doors. He had been led to the same room in which he had been knighted, and didn’t think it was coincidence.

The magistrate disappeared and Sir Edward found himself between the two oak doors and two guards nearly as large. As he turned his head, one of them stepped forward, placed a callused hand on his bare shoulder, and forced his attention back to the door.

He stood for minutes, swaying on his feet as he struggled to keep from toppling over. He didn’t want to appear weak before his king. Suddenly a loud bang echoed through the halls as metal scraped against metal. One of the doors swung open with a groan and inside awaited more guards, all heavily armed.

Edward leaned away from the room and started to fall back. His escorts caught him and shoved him into the room. Torchières hung from the walls, spaced every ten feet around the room. Red drapes hung in sagging arcs between them. King Richard sat regally upon his throne in the center of the room, a scarlet carpet rolled from the main entrance of the hall to his feet. On the king’s right was a counsel table where two nobles sat watching Sir Edward enter from the side door. An entire army had been gathered within this one room. Armored soldiers lined every wall, five rows deep, all eyes on him. Yet nothing was coming back to him.

They led him around the room like an animal and dropped him before the king. Sir Edward studied his lord apprehensively. They had grown up together, in a way. Noble sons with completely different futures awaiting them. They had been friends once, but that was a long time ago. The king regarded him with little emotion.

“Sir Edward,” a voice bellowed. He turned to face the magistrate. “You are accused before your king of murder. How do you plead?”

Nothing. Nothing at all. Murder? Whose? His eyes fell to the floor, his brow curled in concentration and confusion. “How can I plead without knowledge of the crime facing me?” he directed to the king. King Richard looked to the magistrate.

“If you do not plea, then your punishment shall be harsh. Plead guilty and death shall be swift. Sir Edward, how do you plea?” The magistrate’s voice demanded an answer.

He dug deep within himself and clutched the fleeting strength and drew his shoulders back. “I cannot plea for I have no memory of that which I am accused.”

The magistrate curled his lip and regarded the king. After a sigh, he looked to Sir Edward and declared judgment. “Since you are unwilling to accept your crime and admit your sins before your king and this court, you shall suffer your fate on the morrow. You are no longer a servant of your king.”

His heart dropped. How could this be? As the guards took him under their control, his eyes pleaded with the king. “Richard, please. Do not take away what I am. I don’t remember anything. I served you with my life!” As he was dragged him from the room, Richard looked away.



***************



The following morning broke with dull interest. Clouds hung over the landscape, draping a lead curtain across the green fields below. Edward did not sleep. The chains on his wrists, as well as those on his mind, continued to wear on his aching body. He fought to force memories back into the light and struggled to light a fire within the dark catacombs of an amnesia that seemed to root deeper with each passing hour.

The two guards stormed into his cell shortly after dawn. Wordlessly they unshackled him from the wall and bound his hands with coarse rope, and dragged him from the room. Outside the door, the magistrate waited, dressed in full regal attire. Edward’s ravaged body dipped to one side, unable to stand upright.

“One last chance. Confess or be purified by pain.” Silence soaked the corridor and Edward felt like he was drowning. There was nothing, no memories. He couldn’t confess to what he couldn’t recall. The magistrate nodded casually, turned, and led them out of the tower.

Edward pondered escape as they descended the spiraling stairs but he knew the reality of the situation. The last thing he could control was his dignity. Escape was for cowards, not knights. Although he would die a commoner, he knew what he was.

As they led him outside into the main courtyard, an angry mob met him with hatred. Peasants and townsfolk had left their homes and businesses to watch him die. They spat and cursed at him, threw rotten vegetables and fruits. His eyes stung from citrus and their seething words. After an endless barrage from the crowd, a hooded man directed four guards to bind Edward’s arms and legs with rope. At the other end of each rope stood four horses facing opposite directions. He closed his eyes as he was dropped onto his back.

The magistrate addressed the gathering, calling out for anyone who may seek mercy for this murderer. The hate and anger swelled to a fevered pitch. Edward wanted it to be over. His eyes drifted closed as his body lifted from the ground, tension tearing at every limb. He could feel his skin stretch as his joints screamed, yet this was merely the beginning.

It seemed to last forever. The magistrate conducted the crowd in chant upon chant, each time the tension on the ropes increased, then slightly decreased. Edward heard and felt a snap in his right hip followed by a tearing sensation from his left shoulder. It was excruciating. The magistrate silenced the crowd with a raised hand and leaned over to ask one final time, “Do you confess?”

Edward opened his mouth but nothing came forth. Cords in his neck strained to hold his head up. His head shook in frustration at the lost memories. As the magistrate looked away in mild disgust, he raised his hand one last time and the crowd roared stridently. Then it happened.

It came to him. All of it, like a tidal wave slamming an unsuspecting ship. A wall suddenly crumbled in his mind and he could see everything, every detail of a fateful day two months ago. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him!

His eyes opened wide and he saw the hand still raised high. The roar of the crowd faded among the screaming of his limbs. He strained to cry out, his voice weak, the crowd so loud. He yelled again and still nothing. He was innocent. He was innocent! He remembered everything.

He screamed as he watched the hand drop.