Chapter III ... of the Comely Knight

Margery

𝔄𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔉𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔩 𝔖𝔮𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔶, ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔐𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔥 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔢𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔶 𝔦𝔣 ℑ 𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔞 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫 𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯. Though my errands were delayed as I crouched low behind a thick, leafy bush, for my eyes caught sight of a finely-dressed man kneeling by the River Malcolm. This river, one of the last to cross before entering the Grey Quarter, was a pale shadow of its once-glorious self. Mother told of days when its waters ran broad and clear, a cool balm to all who drank of it. But those days have long since passed, and now the river is but a foul mire, thick with the filth of our leavings. Piss and shit have ruined its flow, turning it to a murky green mess. Mother would even joke that now and then the head of a chicken or a fish, scraps from the craftsmen’s lunch in the Artisan’s Quarter, floated by. Yet, though us poorer folk still drew water from it, it struck me as strange to see a man of such fine bearing here.

Curiously, I watched him as he lazily trailed a finger along the river’s surface. It seemed as if he was outlining his own reflection, watching his visage ripple through the flowing water. From my angle, the man seemed somewhat gloomy. I wondered if the murk vexed him, for it surely robbed him of the pleasure of admiring his own image. I could hardly believe what I was seeing, for only a fool could be so vain as to love himself to such a height. A smile began to creep across my face, and when I thought he was growing aroused by his own reflection, a laugh slipped from me and gave away my position. At once, the man turned, his eyes finding me where I hid.

“Show yourself!”

With a shade of red caressing my face, I shamefully revealed myself from the shrubbery. Then momentarily, I stood in a state of shock, as I recognized the man before me. He was a knight, and a comely one at that. He wore muted grey hose, leading to a vibrant red cotehardie. A fine cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a jeweled brooch, hung about him, its edges trimmed with costly fur. His face was flawless, unmarred by the roughness that marked the soldiers' faces—those rugged features that often had me biting my lip, captivating me. No, his skin was fair and smooth, almost glowing, with long blonde hair that fell softly to his neck. But it was his pale blue eyes that truly completed the sense of majesty about him, like something out of a tale.

I knew him only through Mother, who, from time to time, I would catch speaking with him. Their meetings were always secretive, whether after curfew or behind some old building. Whatever they discussed, it seemed important, though I was never privy to their words. However, when his gaze fell upon me, his eyes grew glassy, and his expression shifted to one of sadness.

“It’s a shame, ain’t it?” The man remarked, gesturing toward the river.

I looked at him as if I was confused.

“When the river ran clearer, I wouldst venture here to gaze upon my own face. Now, you can hardly see within.”

Still, I remained silent. Now thinking he was just as foolish and vain as I had suspected.

“Am I scarin’ thee?”

“N- no.” I replied.

The knight advanced with a friendly smile, lowering himself in a genial kneel beside me.

“I know of you, gentle dove. Margery, is it not? Or Miri, as your mother calls you.”

I was slightly taken aback, though something in his tone told me he already knew my name, as if Mother had mentioned me in their conversations. He also spoke in a way that suggested he wasn’t used to talking to younger women, like I.

“I know thee as well. Mother brings me when she visits you, yet your name is never brought up.”

“Thus, she speaks not of me does she?” He inquired, a quiver lacing his voice.

“I…”

“I am Sir Delwyne, a knight in service to the Magistrate, yet thou mayest call me by whatever name you wish.”

“You confuse me, good sir knight. Why are you here, by this wretched river? And why speakest of me?”

“Perchance, one day she might tell you, but I wished only to make thy acquaintance in earnest, truly.”

Before I could respond, I watched as the knight ruffled around his girdle, only to produce a small pouch of coin. Slowly, he handed it to me, and with small, eager palms I accepted it. After, I glanced up and nearly saw tears in his eyes. I was confused, utterly bewildered, was this man sound of mind?

He then asked how I had come by my horsebread and barley, his tone hinting as though he thought I might have stolen it. Now, I’ll not deny I’ve had a hand in small-time pilfering, but never so dumb as to display my trade in the open like Festival Square. Yet, with a steady gaze, he insisted the coin should suffice not only for my food but for any errands I might endure in the days to come.

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After a spell of silence, and an awkward aura hanging within the air, Sir Delwyne eventually left. I think he expected some word of thanks for the coin, but what need have I to show gratitude to a man who skulks about? Stalker, more like, if you ask me. Why should I thank him? Still, after filling my sheepskin with water, I too found myself drawn to the river’s edge, curious if I might catch my reflection. As I peered into the murk, it struck me how much I’ve begun to favor my mother. My eyes, blue as hers, near as bright as the sky itself. Hair as golden as the knight who had just left, yet my face bears none of the markings from her old tribe—a history she refuses to speak of, no matter how often I ask.

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The day began to set, and I figured I’d return home, yet my mind swarmed with questions, most of them circling around that handsome knight. But as the sun dipped low, I knew my day was far from over, for there stood Emmeline, waiting by the entrance to the Grey Quarter. One would know well they were stepping into this poverty-stricken district, or rather, a slum, by the sight of an old man locked in the pillory near a crumbling wattle fence and gate. While the other quarters of the city were separated by stout stone walls, ours was the only one left to rot without proper infrastructure. ‘Tis likely the very reason Emmeline never dared set foot within, being as much a chicken as she is a dope.

By the Divine, I swear the only 'care' the Grey Quarter has seen from the baron comes in the form of gallows, gibbets, and pillories scattered throughout the district. I’ll admit, it has curbed the rampant crime we had a year or two past. But it makes me wonder, if the crime were to vanish entirely, would the baron still leave those cruel structures standing, a constant reminder of our so-called wickedness? As if the nobility themselves are without flaws.

Regardless, Emmeline approached me. Her brownish-red locks beaming off the waning sun, with a sprinkle of freckles caressing her chunky-like face. Though I appeared more as the ideal Andorhalian than she, Emmeline was more of a prideful, enthusiastic soul regarding the realm. As proof of this, the very question she was about to ask only strengthened that claim.

“Have you reconsidered? Pray, tell me you have.”

She was referring to a little heist I had in mind, a plan to steal from one of Holsworthy’s newest residents. And knowing Emmeline, she’d never wish harm upon a fellow subject of the kingdom.

“Why of course we are!”

I added a hint of menace to my tone, just to rile her up, for she knows full well that what I overheard was in that man’s house is no small thing. Rare indeed, and likely to fetch us a fine meal or two if sold. Her response, as always, was the same—‘What if we’re caught? What if our parents find out?’ I can’t fault her for worrying, especially knowing that hulking brute of a father she’s got would thrash her soundly if she were caught in any mischief.

I reassured her we’d be just fine and reminded her of the time we swiped one of the Master of Horse’s mares only a few weeks past. I dared not mention that Gunnar and Darqdelas, from the Grey Quarter, had told me the city’s magistrate was on our trail. But truth be told, I wasn’t worried. I highly doubt the Sheriff himself will bother to come after the likes of us.

“So worry naught of the officials,” she said, her hands fidgeting, “but what of the man himself?”

“What man? The one who owns the tenement? What of him?”

“They say he’s a rather creepy lot, the the people know little of his past. My uncle exchanged words with him on a few occasions, and the man claimed he once was a tinker. Yet just the other day, he told some of the other artisans he had been a fishmonger and a blacksmith as well. I telleth thee, he frightens me. And that scar upon his face! Who can say what troubles he had seen in his life, and…”

Emmeline continued to prattle on about how frightful the man we were to steal from was. To be fair, there’s naught more terrifying than robbing the Master of Horse. I’d much prefer to pilfer from someone concealing their true identity than from an old war veteran.

“Margery!” Emmeline cried out.

“What?!”

“They say he hails from the land beset by that new plague, where a blight is wreaking havoc upon the crops.”

“Sister, I know little of what you ramble about. And truthfully, I care naught.”

This is the second time now that someone has mentioned this new plague to me, but why? How important can it truly be? If even Emmeline, with her round, fat face, has heard of it, then surely the rumor must be spreading among both the lowborn and high alike. Unlike her, I can cast it aside with ease, we’re well protected by Holsworthy’s walls. Still, it leaves me wondering just how much of a stir is this plague truly causing

Emmeline stood still, her head bowed in shame. After a brief moment of silence, she reluctantly agreed to join me, but with two conditions. First, she’d stay outside while I did the dirty work. Second, she wanted a larger share than we’d originally agreed upon when we split the coin. Normally, we’d have quarreled over this, but seeing as that strange knight had already slipped me a few coins earlier, I let her have this hollow victory and agreed.

As the evening deepened and the wind began to sweep through, I sent Emmeline home, and rather quickly she had already vanished into the distance, her small frame swallowed by the encroaching darkness. I lingered a moment longer, casting one final glance in the direction of the River Malcolm, thinking of Sir Delwyne. His coin still sat heavy in my pocket, a weight not of gold, but of questions gnawing at the corners of my mind. Why had he sought me out? And what part did my mother play in all of this? I couldn’t shake the feeling that the knight’s visit had stirred something beneath the surface, something greater than myself, greater than all of us trapped within these crumbling walls. As I slipped through the broken gate of the Grey Quarter, I wondered if I would ever truly leave this place. Not for the heist with Emmeline, nor for the coin in my pocket, but for something far greater—a future beyond the grime and decay, where the rivers might run clear once more.

With a sigh, I began my slow trek home.