The Knight of the Forest
Once upon a time in Albion the wars were ended, and to the surprise of everyone, a time of peace dawned bright and glorious as ever it brief would be. And with battles done and banners drenched well in the blood of the unworthy foe, the Knights and Lords and Heroes of the realm returned to their lands and holdings, and making joyous reunion with wives and kinsman and lovers close, they broke their fast in feast and gentle music as the world turned, and summer turned to golden autumn hue.
And as the custom in Albion called, it was a time of hunting and tourney and dancing and courtship, and many the maiden who sought a handsome Knight returned from the war. And many the new-made widow who mourned the memory of a husband slain, but hard-yet the fresh-bitter loss of bed-sheets cold, unwarmed by sweet caress.
And returning Knights also turned their thoughts to love. Young men these, and blinking in wonder and bedazzlement, englamoured by the courts of joy and the rituals of hallowed courtship. For what did these heroes know of gentle sport and whispered endearment and cunning snare? Short months before their lives knew only the sounds and scents of carnage and the brutal embrace of bloody battle. Now the world had turned and their hearts lay open, their wards exposed by unfamiliar passions and strange adventure.
And to the finest court of the land came a Knight of name and glory, a youth yet in truth, but a seasoned commander in war and victor in single combat, wise in strife and merciful in the eyes of the fallen. And his tunic was sea-green brocade, and his cloak of emerald shades, and his hair the colour of raven-black to match his belt and boots, and no jewelry or ornament did he wear save a single broach of silver in the shape of the sun.
And at that court was a maiden passing fair, and schooled well in all the gentle arts, and willful, for she was the daughter of a Lord, and though her easy laughter carried well like golden music, her eyes were the gaze of a hunter, and sure-resolved she marked her prey. Full white her skin, with lips like holly-berries, her hair a flaxen wave of platted silver, and her hunters eyes the colour of the harvest moon.
And maiden and Knight met close that eve, and impulsive yet, the Knight pledged his faith to the maid, and swore ever to love her if only that love might be returned. And thoughtful now, the maiden turned her eyes away and mused a space,
“It is the custom of my country Sir, that an honest suitor will pledge faith and flesh to the bounty of the hunt, that love might flower from the fairest gift of all.”
And the Knight bent his knee then, and swore to honour that custom.
Smiling, the maiden raised him up with a gentle hand and assayed the lightest kiss of perfect lips upon the Knight’s youthful cheek.
“Then seek ye the white hart, who runs in the forest paths of my father’s wilds, his eyes have seen the world turn thrice and more, his noble form has graced the words of song and dream and thuswise may I know your love is true.”
And on the morrow the Knight set out from the Castle of the Autumn Lord and arming himself for hunt and light travel he ranged out into the wilds and forest glades, resolved well and ever to take hunt-bounty in supplication to his pledge.
And after a time, he spied a wondrous shape in the shade of dappled light and woodland canopy. And stood well and close the white hart of legend, and pure as snow his flanks, and wide and wise his eyes, and crimson-tipped his ears, and golden-flecked his neck and hooves. And though the Knight crouched close and brought up his bow and nocked flight to twine, his heart would not allow the shot, and watching mutely, he stood up in clear view and bowed his head. And the white hart turned and walked deeper into the forest, looking back once in a gesture of invitation. The Knight shouldered his bow then and followed the path the Hart had taken.
And as evening came the Knight came upon a tower in the forest, half-tumbled, moss-wreathed, and yet inhabited still, for amongst the ruins dwelled yet the court of a broken king.
And this King had once held dominion over a wide and bounteous land, and a large man was he, and hearty yet, with a stomach round as a boulder, and cheeks flushed red with hard consumption. And while ever the Kingdom had flourished and grown, the King had taken more besides to feed his own desire for riches and luxury, until at last his taxes had destroyed the love of a people, and raising against him, the subjects had driven their lord away to exile and lonely retreat. But this broken King had found truth of a sort, and contentment in exile, for now he planted crops and brewed ale, and lived as well as ever he had done before, though now the labour he reaped was his own, and his skin wore ever the hue of peasant and rural forester.
“Once, Sir Knight, I was a ravager to my country, I squeezed the love from the people and earned only hate therein. But now I find greater joy in consuming the bounty of my own hands.”
A pleasant enough evening the Knight spent at the tower, speaking on into the darkness of love and excess, and how in exile alone the King had discovered with pleasure the lessons learnt from his past misdeeds. And in the morning the Knight bade him well and continued upon his way into the forest upon the track of the White Hart.
Throughout the day the Knight caught glimpses of the Hart before him in the woods, but never yet could he draw closer again than a far bowshot, and as the day grew long, he felt fatigue rise up within him, and much relieved was the Knight when he spied out of the falling dusk, another tower looming close from the forest.
This too was the dwelling of a broken king; ancient stones overgrown with the forest verge, an archway of fire-scorched stone, a woeful court to the vanished fame of an exiled lord.
And this King had once held dominion over a wide and bounteous land, but a small and withered man was he, with a ragged beard and pocked face of sallow hue, and whenever his realm had flourished and sought glory and wonder in its time, this King had looked away and abandoned the dreams of his people in distraction and lazy indolence, until at last the people had risen against him, placing one of their own as Lord, and driving away the absentee monarch to exile and lonely reflection. But this broken King had found truth of a sort, and contentment in exile, and while his lost Kingdom whirled onwards in ambition and ceaseless quest, he now viewed matters with a philosopher’s distance, and mused in peace, writing down his thoughts and fancies and wiling away the days, enjoying only the frugal bounty of the forest.
“Once, Sir Knight, I had a Kingdom and loved it not, and turning my eyes away I earned naught but hatred, for a country like a lover, cannot be forsaken. Now I find what little joy I need in isolation and in truth I wish my people well.”
A pleasant enough evening the Knight spent at the tower, speaking on into the darkness of love and its demands, and how in exile alone the King had discovered with pleasure the lessons learnt from his past misdeeds. And in the morning the Knight bade him well and continued upon his way into the forest upon the track of the White Hart.
Throughout the next day the Knight caught glimpses of the Hart before him in the barrens and wild places, but never yet could he draw closer still than a far bowshot, and as the day grew long, he felt a great fatigue rise up within him, and much relieved was the Knight when he spied in the dying light, another tower, hunched close to the edge of a ravine overlooking a fair valley and river through its midst.
And this too was the dwelling of a broken king; a sorrowful tower of tumbled stones, a courtyard of splintered mosaic, a single banner flapping in rags against the wind that rose from the valley below, a mortuary-stronghold to the love of an exiled lord.
And this King had once held dominion over a wide and bounteous land, and a fair-featured man was he, of comely face and lean-muscled form, but his eyes were filled with sadness and his manner was marked to full-measure with sorrowful taint, and whenever his realm had waxed or waned in prominence he had stood and sacrificed of himself, and whenever glory had risen he shared it well with the faith of his people, but a usurper had come and made hard war against him, and at the last he had fled the realm he loved to spare the suffering of those caught in the conflict, now dwelling as a lonely exile to gaze from afar at his sole life’s love. But this broken King had found no truth at all, and no contentment in exile, and while his lost Kingdom suffered the embrace of another, he suffered yet the agony of indecision and the torment of close denied regard.
“Once, Sir Knight, I had a Kingdom, or rather it had me, for I loved it well as anything in life and faith be my witness, I love it still. Now I find no joy in life and I wait in this place to die, for my hands are tied with love, and I am become forgotten in the present.”
A hard evening this, for the Knight could see the suffering well upon the face of the broken King, and on into the darkness they spoke of love and betrayal and passion, and how in the exile yet, the King yearned still to serve a people kneeling now to a foreign usurper. No lesson had he learned, and no desire to blight love with horror wrought in war and strife. Unsettled and thoughtful in turn, the Knight bade him farewell on the morrow, and having no path to continue in pursuit of the Hart, he turned his steps back towards the court of the Autumn Lord, and to the side of his own true love of three short days.
And coming again to the joyous court, the troubled Knight came into the presence of the maiden fair, and knelt then and took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to her slender wrist.
“I am returned my love.”
And raising him up with her smile of welcome the maiden asked,
“I see you have brought no common hunt bounty for a token Sir Knight.”
And shaking his head the Knight met her eyes and whispered,
“It that task I have failed, and in other ways my trial is incomplete.”
“Pray tell Sir Knight.”
“I have learned two secret truths but a third eludes me yet. I learned that love may die from obsession and abandonment, but such slights are not necessarily fatal, or even for the worst.”
“And the third secret truth?”
“I have seen a love that is strong yet but flowers in a barren field away from eyes that might find joy in the flowering. I do not understand the meaning and it troubles me deeply.”
The maiden stepped back from the Knight then, and invited an embrace with palms outstretched, and eyes laughing at a secret jest.
“Nothing in life has any right to perfection Sir Knight, two secrets from three should be bounty enough. If you would have me I shall be your wife and pledge my life to yours.”
Long moments the Knight said nothing, and then lowered his eyes in sorrow and apology.
“In truth, I cannot accept, I have seen injustice abroad in this land, and while another love suffers in silence, mine will never grow and flourish. I cannot stand aside and bide my aid from those who need it most.”
And the maiden took the Knights hands nonetheless, and kissed him, and laughed a golden peal of gentle laughter.
“If I may not be your lover gentle Knight, then I shall be your guide, and we shall travel far in search of the answer you seek.”
And all at once she was gone, and a golden glow fading and the sound of wind in the forest glades, and the Knight stood a time in thought and reflection.
And soon thereafter the wars began anew, and the Knight raised a company of bold-emblazoned champions, and the deeds they did are the stuff of other stories. But for now it is enough to say that justice has rarely stood alone in Albion, and thereafter the Knight in forest green wore the device of the white hart upon his shield, and far the journeys he made in pursuit of enlightenment and truth, and though he never did take a wife before a foeman’s sword claimed his life, he never wanted for company in the glades and wild places of the land he loved.
And as the custom in Albion called, it was a time of hunting and tourney and dancing and courtship, and many the maiden who sought a handsome Knight returned from the war. And many the new-made widow who mourned the memory of a husband slain, but hard-yet the fresh-bitter loss of bed-sheets cold, unwarmed by sweet caress.
And returning Knights also turned their thoughts to love. Young men these, and blinking in wonder and bedazzlement, englamoured by the courts of joy and the rituals of hallowed courtship. For what did these heroes know of gentle sport and whispered endearment and cunning snare? Short months before their lives knew only the sounds and scents of carnage and the brutal embrace of bloody battle. Now the world had turned and their hearts lay open, their wards exposed by unfamiliar passions and strange adventure.
And to the finest court of the land came a Knight of name and glory, a youth yet in truth, but a seasoned commander in war and victor in single combat, wise in strife and merciful in the eyes of the fallen. And his tunic was sea-green brocade, and his cloak of emerald shades, and his hair the colour of raven-black to match his belt and boots, and no jewelry or ornament did he wear save a single broach of silver in the shape of the sun.
And at that court was a maiden passing fair, and schooled well in all the gentle arts, and willful, for she was the daughter of a Lord, and though her easy laughter carried well like golden music, her eyes were the gaze of a hunter, and sure-resolved she marked her prey. Full white her skin, with lips like holly-berries, her hair a flaxen wave of platted silver, and her hunters eyes the colour of the harvest moon.
And maiden and Knight met close that eve, and impulsive yet, the Knight pledged his faith to the maid, and swore ever to love her if only that love might be returned. And thoughtful now, the maiden turned her eyes away and mused a space,
“It is the custom of my country Sir, that an honest suitor will pledge faith and flesh to the bounty of the hunt, that love might flower from the fairest gift of all.”
And the Knight bent his knee then, and swore to honour that custom.
Smiling, the maiden raised him up with a gentle hand and assayed the lightest kiss of perfect lips upon the Knight’s youthful cheek.
“Then seek ye the white hart, who runs in the forest paths of my father’s wilds, his eyes have seen the world turn thrice and more, his noble form has graced the words of song and dream and thuswise may I know your love is true.”
And on the morrow the Knight set out from the Castle of the Autumn Lord and arming himself for hunt and light travel he ranged out into the wilds and forest glades, resolved well and ever to take hunt-bounty in supplication to his pledge.
And after a time, he spied a wondrous shape in the shade of dappled light and woodland canopy. And stood well and close the white hart of legend, and pure as snow his flanks, and wide and wise his eyes, and crimson-tipped his ears, and golden-flecked his neck and hooves. And though the Knight crouched close and brought up his bow and nocked flight to twine, his heart would not allow the shot, and watching mutely, he stood up in clear view and bowed his head. And the white hart turned and walked deeper into the forest, looking back once in a gesture of invitation. The Knight shouldered his bow then and followed the path the Hart had taken.
And as evening came the Knight came upon a tower in the forest, half-tumbled, moss-wreathed, and yet inhabited still, for amongst the ruins dwelled yet the court of a broken king.
And this King had once held dominion over a wide and bounteous land, and a large man was he, and hearty yet, with a stomach round as a boulder, and cheeks flushed red with hard consumption. And while ever the Kingdom had flourished and grown, the King had taken more besides to feed his own desire for riches and luxury, until at last his taxes had destroyed the love of a people, and raising against him, the subjects had driven their lord away to exile and lonely retreat. But this broken King had found truth of a sort, and contentment in exile, for now he planted crops and brewed ale, and lived as well as ever he had done before, though now the labour he reaped was his own, and his skin wore ever the hue of peasant and rural forester.
“Once, Sir Knight, I was a ravager to my country, I squeezed the love from the people and earned only hate therein. But now I find greater joy in consuming the bounty of my own hands.”
A pleasant enough evening the Knight spent at the tower, speaking on into the darkness of love and excess, and how in exile alone the King had discovered with pleasure the lessons learnt from his past misdeeds. And in the morning the Knight bade him well and continued upon his way into the forest upon the track of the White Hart.
Throughout the day the Knight caught glimpses of the Hart before him in the woods, but never yet could he draw closer again than a far bowshot, and as the day grew long, he felt fatigue rise up within him, and much relieved was the Knight when he spied out of the falling dusk, another tower looming close from the forest.
This too was the dwelling of a broken king; ancient stones overgrown with the forest verge, an archway of fire-scorched stone, a woeful court to the vanished fame of an exiled lord.
And this King had once held dominion over a wide and bounteous land, but a small and withered man was he, with a ragged beard and pocked face of sallow hue, and whenever his realm had flourished and sought glory and wonder in its time, this King had looked away and abandoned the dreams of his people in distraction and lazy indolence, until at last the people had risen against him, placing one of their own as Lord, and driving away the absentee monarch to exile and lonely reflection. But this broken King had found truth of a sort, and contentment in exile, and while his lost Kingdom whirled onwards in ambition and ceaseless quest, he now viewed matters with a philosopher’s distance, and mused in peace, writing down his thoughts and fancies and wiling away the days, enjoying only the frugal bounty of the forest.
“Once, Sir Knight, I had a Kingdom and loved it not, and turning my eyes away I earned naught but hatred, for a country like a lover, cannot be forsaken. Now I find what little joy I need in isolation and in truth I wish my people well.”
A pleasant enough evening the Knight spent at the tower, speaking on into the darkness of love and its demands, and how in exile alone the King had discovered with pleasure the lessons learnt from his past misdeeds. And in the morning the Knight bade him well and continued upon his way into the forest upon the track of the White Hart.
Throughout the next day the Knight caught glimpses of the Hart before him in the barrens and wild places, but never yet could he draw closer still than a far bowshot, and as the day grew long, he felt a great fatigue rise up within him, and much relieved was the Knight when he spied in the dying light, another tower, hunched close to the edge of a ravine overlooking a fair valley and river through its midst.
And this too was the dwelling of a broken king; a sorrowful tower of tumbled stones, a courtyard of splintered mosaic, a single banner flapping in rags against the wind that rose from the valley below, a mortuary-stronghold to the love of an exiled lord.
And this King had once held dominion over a wide and bounteous land, and a fair-featured man was he, of comely face and lean-muscled form, but his eyes were filled with sadness and his manner was marked to full-measure with sorrowful taint, and whenever his realm had waxed or waned in prominence he had stood and sacrificed of himself, and whenever glory had risen he shared it well with the faith of his people, but a usurper had come and made hard war against him, and at the last he had fled the realm he loved to spare the suffering of those caught in the conflict, now dwelling as a lonely exile to gaze from afar at his sole life’s love. But this broken King had found no truth at all, and no contentment in exile, and while his lost Kingdom suffered the embrace of another, he suffered yet the agony of indecision and the torment of close denied regard.
“Once, Sir Knight, I had a Kingdom, or rather it had me, for I loved it well as anything in life and faith be my witness, I love it still. Now I find no joy in life and I wait in this place to die, for my hands are tied with love, and I am become forgotten in the present.”
A hard evening this, for the Knight could see the suffering well upon the face of the broken King, and on into the darkness they spoke of love and betrayal and passion, and how in the exile yet, the King yearned still to serve a people kneeling now to a foreign usurper. No lesson had he learned, and no desire to blight love with horror wrought in war and strife. Unsettled and thoughtful in turn, the Knight bade him farewell on the morrow, and having no path to continue in pursuit of the Hart, he turned his steps back towards the court of the Autumn Lord, and to the side of his own true love of three short days.
And coming again to the joyous court, the troubled Knight came into the presence of the maiden fair, and knelt then and took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to her slender wrist.
“I am returned my love.”
And raising him up with her smile of welcome the maiden asked,
“I see you have brought no common hunt bounty for a token Sir Knight.”
And shaking his head the Knight met her eyes and whispered,
“It that task I have failed, and in other ways my trial is incomplete.”
“Pray tell Sir Knight.”
“I have learned two secret truths but a third eludes me yet. I learned that love may die from obsession and abandonment, but such slights are not necessarily fatal, or even for the worst.”
“And the third secret truth?”
“I have seen a love that is strong yet but flowers in a barren field away from eyes that might find joy in the flowering. I do not understand the meaning and it troubles me deeply.”
The maiden stepped back from the Knight then, and invited an embrace with palms outstretched, and eyes laughing at a secret jest.
“Nothing in life has any right to perfection Sir Knight, two secrets from three should be bounty enough. If you would have me I shall be your wife and pledge my life to yours.”
Long moments the Knight said nothing, and then lowered his eyes in sorrow and apology.
“In truth, I cannot accept, I have seen injustice abroad in this land, and while another love suffers in silence, mine will never grow and flourish. I cannot stand aside and bide my aid from those who need it most.”
And the maiden took the Knights hands nonetheless, and kissed him, and laughed a golden peal of gentle laughter.
“If I may not be your lover gentle Knight, then I shall be your guide, and we shall travel far in search of the answer you seek.”
And all at once she was gone, and a golden glow fading and the sound of wind in the forest glades, and the Knight stood a time in thought and reflection.
And soon thereafter the wars began anew, and the Knight raised a company of bold-emblazoned champions, and the deeds they did are the stuff of other stories. But for now it is enough to say that justice has rarely stood alone in Albion, and thereafter the Knight in forest green wore the device of the white hart upon his shield, and far the journeys he made in pursuit of enlightenment and truth, and though he never did take a wife before a foeman’s sword claimed his life, he never wanted for company in the glades and wild places of the land he loved.