Defeated in all but outcome, the slouched Vasierian knights rode muddied hooves over pebble-stoned pavement. All felt the weight of undeserved glory; a dichotomy to the emotions of chanting commoners who lined the streets of Vasier. The crowd’s praise filtered through disenchanted sorrows as the knights interpreted their cries as a mark of shame. This was not their victory, nor were they deserving.

At the head was the equally dreary Duke De La Castell. His arm was tethered to a sling over battered armor. His horse’s reins were held by the squire, as his one good arm haphazardly held the purple-flagged insignia of the royal family’s crest. The stoic in him was true to the demeanor of a general – upright and steadfast.

‘Any other man would have rested himself before arriving triumphant,’ said Sir Bradfrey. The grown man was untouched by the scars of war, having received the queen’s blessing to attend less dangerous duties. While others found themselves obliged to no other duty than to attend the meat grinder that was the Vasier–Mansourian war. To top it off, his pristine appearance was another wound to the returning knights’ already battered egos.

‘Triumphs are for conquerors. I’ve merely held the pendulum in place,’ Castell admitted.

Sir Bradfrey shook his head. ‘Ever so understated. You snatched victory from the jaws of defeat and brought peace before attrition made it so.’

‘Only fools believe in peace. Politics, diplomacy, authority. See what happens when necessity succumbs to greed and conspiracy.’

‘Perhaps your prolonged tenure has made a cynic of you?’ Sir Bradfrey questioned.

‘Perhaps.’

Sir Bradfrey then suggested, ‘Perhaps an ale or two will cure you of this affliction?’

‘We can only hope,’ said Castell as he handed off the royal family’s banner to the squire. Relieved to hand off the symbolic responsibility, he turned gingerly in his saddle. Then he braced himself with full-lunged breath for the heavy descent, the impact reverberating like splintering knives through his battered body. Yet a hero could not show pain. He raised his one good arm in recognition of the praise brought by the cheering onlookers. A giant in their eyes, whose words received a devotion that rivalled even the All Mighty. ‘God save the queen, her sovereignty and all those who make it so!’

Inside the royal courtyard, the festivities were well on their way. Laughter abounded as the jester made a mockery of Castell’s victory.

‘Sally forth. For God and country,’ said the jester, dressed as a chivalrous knight and sitting upon the back of one unlucky horse-decorated servant.

‘Neigh,’ said the servant, a demeaned soul deprived of motivation, who acted with sighed hesitation to the jester’s demands as he crawled on hands and knees.

The jester in his silverware-lined armor encouraged his steed of choice with a firm slap of the back side.

The servant sped up from his snail’s pace as they charged into an assembled line of Mansour-draped dwarfs with wooden spoons for swords. The jester’s child-sized lance parted his undersized enemies.

Whereupon one dwarf with a blunt broomstick broke ranks to impale the stoic knight. ‘Death to Vasier and all who question the One True God,’ he said in his most hellish of grisly accents.

The sizably endowed jester’s right hand repelled the offending dwarf with his unrestrained backhand, breaking the dwarf’s character as he swore and bickered off stage to aid his swollen cheek. ‘Oh, I am wounded. What fate befalls my army, my people, my queen,’ said the jester with exaggerated tongue as he rolled backward into a thrashing tumble and crash upon the onlookers table. Arms and limbs were clumsily swotting mead and feast to the joyful laugher of the honored guests. ‘Don’t worry, you weren’t hungry anyway,’ said the jester, cheerily pushing himself back into fight.

They were then joined by another head-sack-wearing nobody, who with an unflattered voice said, ‘I, Draconian, will save you.’ He then splashed a full bucket of water on the raging dwarfs.

The dousing spurred them into theatrics drowning, with their backs to the ground, kicking and scratching the air until death left them still upon the floor and to the applause of the spectating nobility.

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Or at least the side of the queen’s partitioned court draped in the Vasierian purple and gold.

The other side was less expressive of their enjoyment. Especially one knight of white and red crosses, who was surrounding an impeccably dressed bishop of repressed distaste, and who upon a feast to end famine, left his plate clean and his goblet empty.

‘Don’t worry, my dear Bishop Arcadius. The people shall know the pagans brought this upon us, and that the Lord’s grace blessed us with peace,’ said the now queen’s religious adviser, Davos, whose allegiances lay between his proximity to the Vasier throne and the religious customs that placed the bishop above him within their religious hierarchy.

‘That would be appropriated,’ said Arcadius, raising from his chair to make his acknowledgments to the queen, as the commoners’ roars infiltrated the castle walls, to the royal courtyard.

A persistent white noise accompanied Castell’s arrival like a rushing of wind crashing through the wooden doors. The bishop’s pronouncements were drowned out by the rising tide of nobility, holding up their goblets in honor of their great man.

Their praise was received with an aura of indestructibility as Castell paced himself slow to disguise the fragility of his bones and weak weary muscles, heading towards the center before facing the fully grown but still young Queen Marguen, the now reigning monarch of Vasier.

‘It’s,’ said Sir Castell with a weary mind, dazed by a foulness of spirit that was incumbered solely upon him as though sucking the oxygen from the court, ‘my great honor to … bring—’

‘Bring you the terms of peace, my queen,’ said the squire before handing Castell the sealed parchment.

‘Allow me,’ said Davos with quick-fire clicks of the fingers to prompt the squire his way. ‘Queen Marguen, in recognition of our young and fortuitous alliance …’

‘Duke De La Castell,’ said Queen Marguen in her soft impassionate voice, as though a puppet to his mother’s whim. ‘In your word, what peace have you brought me?’

‘One of faith for gold. Mansour has offered a wagon twice its weight in gold for your conversion from the Church of Saints and the Divine Spirit to the Church of the One True God.’

‘Overseen by the most devout Bishop Arcadius,’ added Devos.

‘Ultra-orthodoxy?’ said Queen Marguen. Her inquisitive nature was in full swing as she tried to make sense of the deal.’

‘That is correct,’ said Davos.

‘What of Prince Gideon?’ queried Venessa, with a far more insistent tone to her daughter’s canter.

‘He will renounce all claims to the Mansour throne and accept his place among the church’s ministry,’ said Castell, to a snickered awe of the crowd.

Their attention was then directed to the well-lubricated Gideon. It was still early in the feast, and yet the prince was already several points down and pursuing his next love interest, unaware the spotlight shone with embarrassed disbelief towards his debaucherous behavior, until a subtle tap to his shoulder and the servant’s quick recap brought him back into the conversation. ‘I never knew my brother had such a sense of humor.’ His loud, high-pitch voice was indistinguishable from the nervous crackle as he looked to his sister to find her five yards past serious.

‘Thousands of lives depend on you keeping it in your pants, Uncle. Perhaps that is cause enough for you to accept your duty,’ said Queen Marguen, with her mother’s reassurance placed upon her shoulder.

‘Ahh, the sober me will probably think more clearly on the matter, my queen,’ said Gideon, winking at his hopeful mistress.

‘In your words, Duke De La Castel, is there now peace between Vasier and Mansour?’ asked Venessa, who despite no longer holding the title of Regent, still held the implicit authority above her daughters.

‘The folly of man is built upon flawed assumptions, as is this alliance, but to deny it is to commit us to worst of all outcomes.’

‘Such pessimism is devoid of faith. The Mansourian king will honor the treaty. As should we, given the plight of heathenous Vikings stirring up trouble north of both our borders,’ said Davos.

‘What would you have us do, Davos? Our fields need harvesting before the winter, while their raids will surely hibernate until the next campaign season, by which time we will be united and ready,’ said Castell, slouched uncontrollably to one side, his eyes remaining closed among a throbbing mind. He was in need of his squire’s help to correct his balance.

‘Seat him at once. Is it not enough that we ask him to win our wars, let alone needlessly parade him under ill health?’ said Venessa.

‘My queen, The Blood of Templars, who are the knights of the One True God, they are more than capable of holding the porous north from these unruly pagans,’ said Davos as he directed the queen’s attention to Amos, the attending templar leader. He was a handsome but weathered man with blond locks and one heartbreaker of a blue eye.

‘How many knights can you contribute to our northern border?’ said Marguen.

‘Two hundred, my queen. But make no mistake, we’re the only two hundred you’ll ever need,’ said Amos.

‘That they are, but what about Duke De La Castell to lead them?’

‘He has done enough, my queen,’ said Venessa. Her influence was asserted through rigid posturing that evoked memories of Marguen’s childhood insecurities.

‘Duke De La Castell, who would you recommend lead such an expedition?’ Marguen asked.

‘I think the position should fall to Sir Bradfrey,’ Castell replied.

Queen Marguen fought the urge to seek her mother’s approval. All seemed reasonable, all seemed familiar. Like clockwork, the cogs turned without her knowing how or why. All she could do was stand back and try not to break it. ‘Then, Sir Bradfrey it is.’