They had passed over a rocky river and her leg had slipped. From there on, lameness had over took the old mare. A young Ryan Crye, a red headed squire to the great Sir Trent, a Kings Knights, had found himself almost begging his Lord for them to stop, to let her rest before they got to the Kings tournament, but the Knight had no compassion for such things. If she could not keep up, she would be disposed of.
The young squire had considered leaving her in one of the inns, just until they passed back through, but when he had asked, the Knight had said it would be a waste. He was not willing to spend his money on the old mare; he would rather spend it on the whores. Ryan had considered leaving her in a camp they had erected on the fourth night. It was safe from wolves and bears, and was one they would pass through on their way home. However, when he had left her, she had followed him.
The mare had never liked being alone, and she must have thought the pain worth it to stay with her young rider. Even if she would never make it.
It had been an early morning when she had fallen for the last time. She laid there on her side, her breathing was heavy, but it was constant. The mare was trying so hard not to give up, to keep herself alive for the boy she was so worried would turn in to his superior if he cared about no one else, but himself.
The squire, her rider, her Ryan, sat with her in her last moments. Moments that would have come much later if the Knight had not slit her throat.
“Horses die just like men, we move on” the Knight said. There was no compassion, no respect.
The mare had once belonged to him, but he had turned old and nasty; or maybe he had always been that way. Ryan had looked up at him once, but now, he could not help but feel ashamed. How had he not seen what this man was truly like. He’d left his father, a coward, a beater, to follow someone he thought was different.
Ryan walked the rest of the way, following in the back of the Knights procession. The Kings tournament would only last four days, but still the Knight had taken his whole house with him.
He had his cook to ensure the meat was not poisoned, his three servants to make sure his weaponry was sharp, his two young handmaidens to ensure his tent was clean (amongst other things), his stable hand to ensure his horse was looked after, and Ryan for everything else. They had also acquired another on their travel, a blonde headed whore who took a delight in sitting on the back of the Knights horse with her small arms wrapped around him.
She had taken notice of Ryan, sometimes flinging herself at him when she thought the Knight did not look, but he had no need or want of her. The Knight did not care if his squire shared his whore, but he had got so lazy on his choosing’s as of late, that his dick was spotted and his balls were red. As beautiful as the whore was, Ryan did not want to share such things with his Lord.
The tournament had only just begun when they rode in. Tents had been erected all around the Kings field, the castle dominating the skyline. The Knights tent had already been erected before they had arrived, and the servants made quick work to make it to the Knights liking. Before he had settled, the Knight had pushed Ryan in the direction of the stable, telling him and the stable hand to pick out a horse. He told him to get something young, sturdy, something that would aid both him and the Knight during the tournament if his black steed ever fell.
He had not wanted to choose another, not so soon, but as the Kings stable hand, an old grey headed man had showed him what was on offer, Ryan strayed towards a blue colt. It had looked at him curiously and he had looked back at it. There was something about the way the colt held himself, something Ryan could not explain or understand.
“He is a fine horse with a soft heart. If you show him compassion young Sir, he will give you his all” the grey haired man said as he walked up behind him. His own stable hand grimaced at the thought of the horse, there was something about it he did not like, but then maybe he had been around the Knight far too much to care about helping a quiet soul. Despite his obvious annoyance, Ryan chose the colt.
The horse was six years old and his name was Bezel.
The Knight had not cared for him, just as the stable hand had said, but like I said the Knight did not care for much these days.
King of the kingdom, Rhyne Collonau, did not take part in the tournament, knowing that the men would let him win. Anyhow, the King’d had his fill of war, of fighting. He was happy to watch, to spectate the lives of his followers.
He had seen the Knight arrive, as always, with a procession of people; followed by a young Ryan Crye. He looked like his father, but despite his name and his likeness, he fought like a warrior, held himself like a young Knight. He had already competed in and wan five sparring games with older men before the first day ended. He was no coward like his father.
The Knight had won his seventh jousting match by noon on the second day. He was in the lead, and would most probably again, be top of the board by the tournaments end.
It was on the third day that Ryan took part in his first joust. He could feel the adrenaline running through him as he’d adorned the armor. It was not steel like the Knights, but the poles were much duller, less likely to kill. He could feel Bezels excitement as he mounted him. He enjoyed being ridden, to run -just as much as Ryan did. Ryan remembered running at the horse, remembered putting his jousting pole down, but then it had cracked, stabbing the other horse in the chest. It fell and the rider toppled on to the ground.
Bezel had stopped in his tracks, throwing Ryan off the top of him and causing him to do a roll in the air before hitting the ground. He had looked up, his head spinning as people had rushed to them. The other horse was dead, and the man had smacked his head on the fence between them; death would come later for him.
The Knight had been both impressed and disappointed. Disappointed more that he had fallen from his horse. It had not been Ryans fault, the man’s horse had tripped and fallen towards the pole, but still the Knight had congratulated him. It was not the first man the squire had led to death, and it would not be his last, but it was not one he had intended. The man had been in his forties, his wife had cheered him on at the side. They had come for the fun of it, to be a part of the Kings celebrations, not to die. The Knight had already considered taking the crying widow back to his tent, it was the first thing that had popped in to his mind. She could be Ryan’s prize once he he’d had his fill.
The blue colt had not moved. His feet were firmly stuck in place. Ryan had been helped up by two men he couldn’t remember the faces off, instead, his eyes were transfixed on the man next to him. Silently, he begged the Gods he did not believe in to let him live, for his daughters and sons to keep their father, but then the Knight would slap the frozen horse on the arse. It would bolt, smashing right in to the Knights black stallion who stood awaiting his turn.
In a fit of pure rage, the Knight drew his sword, heading for the pile of horse. Bezel was the first to stand and, as the Knight raised his sword, he brought it down on the colt, only for another to smack it away. It was the last time the Knight would ever have a squire called Ryan Crye. Ryan swiped his sword to the right, hitting the Knights hands and making him drop the steel sword he’d considered stealing once. The Knight had never had many words, only actions, but as he went to grab Ryan, to bestow upon him the things only legend said he could, Ryan held his sword to his throat.
“Goodbye my Lord” Ryan said. He considered ramming the sword through his neck, he may have had the Knight not took a step back. Ryan turned and flung himself on to Bezel. He could not stay here; he could not squire for a man so full of hatred.
He would return home to his father, to his house.
The King had watched quietly. Many men had stood up to Sir Trent, but never had a man made him step away. It was the day the King had decided that the Crye family name would not go down as the ones who had fled from the great war, but be one of the ones who would save the Kingdom from the threat that was so far away.
This is a little insight in to some back story of my current WIP. I wanted to write it so I knew a bit more about a secondary character. Sometimes they only talk to you when you write about them.
Until next time guys,
Just Keep Writing,