Verity

The rasps and clanks of a hundred swords swirled the morning mist as the battle between the knights of the green plume and the knights of the red plume grew fierce. Spurts of scarlet flew through the air and dripped down the long-stemmed grass. It was a dark day in the darkest of the Middle Ages when noblemen fought over the riches of the precious land.

A solitary raven watched as the knights of the red plume began to falter under the swords of the green-plumed knights. His beady eye fixed on their tiring leader whose sword slowed as he became disheartened. Another pair of eyes observed the leader’s red plume as it moved ever closer to the edge of the meadow to escape from the horror of defeat. Those steady eyes and flashing sword progressed through the mayhem to the same destination but with a different purpose. Once in the woods, the two leaders faced each other in a leaf-lined clearing under the wise old oaks.

A third sword gleamed, half hidden by a gooseberry bush. Friend or foe? The raging battle between the two nobles was fierce but short, as one sword found its mark and the red plume and red blood graced the rooted ground.

Detecting a new sound behind him, the noble of the green plume held his panting breath and stepped quickly to his right, ready to turn his sword to more defence, but he was too late. A pain of fire pierced his side and he staggered to lean against the trunk of the mighty oak for support as he painfully raised his sword. His eyes focused on the tall figure of his younger son, who had struck him.

“Gregori!” he burst out in sharp surprise.

“Yes, Father. It is I!” said his son, through gritted teeth, balancing his sword in readiness to finish what he had begun.

“Why, my son?” whispered the bleeding nobleman.

“You said it yourself, Father. These fertile lands of Burgundy will provide our riches. They will gain us anything we want and I want them to gain the hand of Lady Euphoria of San Darconia. She will not take promises for the future. She wants it now! And so do I!” He stepped forward and prepared to thrust the red edges of his sword again at the weakened figure of his own father.

From the meadow, a light-timbred voice called, “Father!” The elder man—The Duke of Grenwoodle—parried the murderous blade and extended his boot to step sharply on his son’s foot.

“You must be drunk, Gregori!” he said.

The young man winced and stumbled to his knees just as the sound of other voices approached.

“I saw him come this way,” called the same light voice.

The green-plumed nobleman stood tall over his son and said, “Here comes your brother. We will deal with this matter another day when you’re sober. Arise and look the part of a faithful son, but do not return to the castle. It is no longer home to you. You love your sword and a greedy dame; so, seek your own fortune. Mine will not be yours. Go, now, and your mother will never know the truth from me.”

The knights crashed through the berry brush with gasps of dismay when they saw their wounded leader, the Duke of Grenwoodle. A fair-haired youth with light step was the first to reach and support the wounded nobleman.

“Are you all right, Father?” he asked.

“Only a scratch, Stephen,” replied his father. “Is the battle done?”

“We won!” chorused the knights. “For our land! For our Duke! For our women! For our God!”

The Duke smiled at their enthusiasm, though he felt no joy in victory that day. He leaned gratefully on the light frame of his elder son and, without a backward glance, followed the exuberant knights out of the woods and into the clearing where the gory remains of their victory seeped into the ground.

No one but the raven watched the brooding figure of the Duke’s younger son Gregori retreat further into the forest until he was swallowed by the greenery.

The solitary black bird observed the activity for a while and then, satisfied that the Duke was preparing to return home, swooped out of the giant oak and circled up and up toward the swelling clouds. When at last he spied the lake, he flew straight on purpose to report all that he had witnessed.

* * * *

Within a year of the battle in the forest glade, the Duke’s elder son Stephen married Lady Honore. She was as fair-haired as her husband and was loved for her kindness to all, including animals. Soon a baby daughter arrived with sunny smiles for everyone and eyes of the deepest and truest blue.

For a time, joy reigned in the castle. But then a pestilence known as the Black Plague took one by one—Honore, then Stephen, then the Duke, and finally his wife Annalynn. The baby girl, Verity, was spared.

The Overseer, Sir Frederick, best friend of Stephen, was highly respected by the knights and peasants alike, as he did his best to maintain the Grenwoodle estate in the aftermath of the bubonic plague.

A cousin of Lady Honore’s, Lady Prudence, looked after Verity as if the child were her own.

Then one day, word arrived that the younger son of the Duke was returning to claim his inheritance.