The young knight dismounted from his horse at the foot of the hill, calming the beast with a handful of dried bread from his food pouch. He was here to make a visit, one which he had to make alone. It was time to confront his past once again, and this time, he hoped for better results than he had garnered the previous times. A stark silence colder than the steel of his sword offered little comfort and no reassurance to his questioning mind at all.
As always he left his sword in its saddle scabbard, and walked the short walk up the small hill to the grave that sat atop it, marked by a Celtic cross. This was all that marked the place where the woman who had caused him and his family so much grief lie at rest. She had taken care of him and his siblings, been a good lady to the honorable Sir Joseph, a knight in the service of the Duke of Wales. As he walked, this young knight let the wind caress his black curls, cleanse his face with the refreshing scent of pine. He let it take him back to that bloody morning just a year, nine months, and a day past, tightening his hand on the pommel of his dagger.
The morning in his memory, there had been a scream at the witching hour that sounded from the chamber of the knight and his lady. The family had been at the manor of one of the local knights for a tourney the next day. The scream had woken the entire castle, with murmurs of witchcraft and murder crossing the castle faster than any fire could manage. By the time the lad, then a squire, had heard of the rumors, he was nearly to the chamber. The door was barred from the inside and several of the competitors of the next day were using a table to ram the door open. He joined them, and they busted the door inward with a sickening, bone-dry snap. On the bed lay the knight and his lady, blood-soaked and slashed wide. Sir Joseph’s dagger was in his lady’s heart, held by her hand. His spine showed from the gaping slash to the throat she had inflicted, and above them she had a note written in blood saying how the estate should be split by the children. No other thing was said of it as far as an explanation, just a grimace from his mother as she slipped into death, a small trail of blood dripping from her lips.
Since then his family had suffered many hardships, a knight that had been present for the tourney took the four children under his roof and continued their training. Family members had caused their share of grief, stealing from the estate and causing troubles for the children and the family that had taken them in whenever possible. The event had scarred many, causing rumors of sickness and even witchcraft.
This knight was here today to gain what he had looked for since it had happened, answers. He wanted to understand why things had happened the way they had, needed to figure out why the woman who had been a caring mother had committed murder so suddenly. Every so often he came and talked to her, to be greeted with silence and only silence. No calm, no peace, no conflict. Just a blankness that reached further than sound, it flicked one’s soul, emptied one of emotions. Now though he had come with a letter.
As he topped the hill he withdrew a folded piece of parchment from a pouch at his side. He stopped at the cross and kneeled down upon one knee, kissed the cross as always and just paused in thought. After a moment, he spoke to his mother while he slipped out his dagger and cut out a section of the grass, scooped it up, and laid it to the side. He looked at the folded parchment and whispered his hopes that she would read it, and laid it within the small hole, then placed the grass section over it again, patting it down until it blended with the earth.
This done, he looked at the cross again and began his verbal inquiries, watching the sun sink lower and lower. Still, only the same silence greeted him. His gaze fell to the dagger on the ground, and it seemed to burn with the blood of the sun, bright crimson. He was swallowed in the hue, and thought of the uselessness of this gesture. She was dead; she would live only in memories to haunt him. In truth she was changed in the end, he could not look to the past to find answers unless it was logically documented. To reflect was an exercise in weakness.
With that thought he reached down and grabbed his blade. Its coldness failed to make him shiver, only making him smile. The smile disappeared as he descended the hill. His horse whinnied, sensing a change in the man. With a look he calmed it, and mounted it. Without a word, or a glance back from whence he came, he sent his horse running full-tilt in a direction of new adventure. His heart now cold, face frozen in a stone scowl, he was ready to face the world. Emotion, he found, was for the weak.
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