Everything Is So Political (13 page)

“Not to worry boys,” the producer said. “So he remembers, so what? It's all just show biz. Focus people, it's time to bring up the lights on…Jesus!”

Obituary:
The Times of London
, January 22, 1950.

ERIC ARTHUR BLAIR aka George Orwell died suddenly yesterday. Born June 25, 1903 in Bihar, India, he was educated at Eton. Writing under the name George Orwell, Mr. Blair created withering critiques of imperialism (
Burmese Days
), poverty (
The Road to Wiggin Pier
), and communism (
Animal Farm
). Undoubtedly his greatest fame came with the publication of his dystopian view of society's future (
1984
). Surprisingly young at 47, and rumoured to be planning a trip to the Swiss Alps, police have some serious questions about Mr. Blair's demise and officials have not ruled out suicide. Mr. Blair has requested that no mention of his pen name be placed on his grave.

The King's Nephew

J. Paul Cooper

J
ane walked carefully through the maze of dead and dying men, whose swords, warhammers, spears, and shattered lances lay scattered on the blood-soaked ground. The hands of the dying reached out to her as she passed, but she had no time to care for any of them.

He would be wearing a blue tunic with Lord Gilbert's symbol, a sword in a ring of fire. Other than a simple helmet, he would wear no armour. Only knights and noblemen wore armour. Only they could afford to buy their lives.

She hoped she wouldn't find him, hoped he was with the soldiers who had retreated before Lord Frederick's knights. Every battle had survivors.

She stopped at the feet of a young man with a spear thrust through his chest. Blood had partially covered the crest of Lord Gilbert. She knelt down and whispered words she knew he would never hear. “I promised I'd come and find you, Tom.”

Jane gently brushed away hair that had fallen across her son's face. He was such a fine looking lad, with broad shoulders and strong hands. Using a small knife she cut away some blonde strands, making sure that none were stained with blood. She placed them inside a small leather pouch containing strands of hair from Tom's two older brothers and their father, John. One year ago her home had been full, now there was only Jane and her two daughters.

She glanced at the surrounding hills and listened for the sound of returning soldiers. Lord Gilbert's soldiers had fled over a nearby hill, pursued by Lord Frederick's army. She wanted to stay by her son forever, but she knew the soldiers would return soon. Jane kissed Tom on the forehead one last time, and forced herself to stand.

Nearby, a man with a lung pierced by an arrow gasped for breath, unable to move. The fearless warrior who once boasted about how many he would leave dead on the battlefield lay helpless, waiting to die.

Before long the healers would start their gruesome task. If they found a fallen soldier with a badly injured arm or leg, they would cut off the limb and use boiling tar to seal the stump and stop the bleeding. Survivors from Lord Gilbert's army would be taken as prisoners back to Lord Fredrick's castle, to die screaming in his dungeons or spend the rest of their lives as slaves.

None of these men had wanted to fight. They would have been content to tend their fields and live out their lives in peace. But noblemen liked to see their banners held high and their polished armour put to use. They were always prepared to shed blood, as long as it wasn't theirs.

Jane looked at the weapons lying on the field around her. Blacksmiths no longer had time to make new ploughshares—they were too busy making swords.

Jane kissed a small wooden cross and whispered a prayer as tears streamed down her face. At least none of her boys could be hurt again. Mercifully, they had been released from further suffering. It was hard to believe that two noblemen had caused all this death and suffering.

Lord Gilbert and Lord Frederick were two of the king's nephews. Their father was the king's favourite brother. Hoping to avoid conflict between his sons after his death, the king's brother had divided his large land holdings equally between his sons. There was, however, one small field that had not been accounted for. Upon their father's death, Lord Gilbert and Lord Frederick both laid claim to the field, and immediately sent in men from their newly inherited territories to set up their banners. Blood was shed over the field before their father's body was laid to rest.

The king had no option but to stay out of the conflict. If his soldiers became involved, it would force other nobleman to choose sides. It might even lead to a challenge to his authority. As far as the king was concerned, the only way to guarantee the safety of his throne was to let the two brothers fight, and hold a banquet in honour of the victor.

It had been over a year since the king's brother had died, and no one knew when the fighting would end. Lord Gilbert and Lord Frederick used the lives of the men and boys in their territories like pawns on a chessboard to be sacrificed for their greed. Village after village was emptied for the sake of less than two acres of land.

Jane walked to the edge of the field where there was a stream and the path that would take her home through the forest. What she saw there made her wonder if there was any hope left. Lying by the edge of the stream, its body pierced with arrows, was a nobleman's horse. “Such a beautiful animal,” she whispered to herself. There seemed no end to the suffering, even for innocent creatures.

Jane stood still and cautiously looked around, wondering if anyone was watching her. As she stepped into the icy cold water to cross the stream, she noticed a piece of blue cloth hanging from a tree branch near the water's edge. She stopped and stared at the cloth. No peasant wore cloth like that.

Curious, Jane moved closer to the tree and reached for the cloth. Suddenly, a voice called out from among the branches. “Don't come any closer!” Almost hidden by the branches was a man wearing a blue vest and a silver breastplate over a suit of chain mail. The silver breastplate bore a familiar symbol: a sword ringed with fire. Jane looked through the branches at the man sitting on the wet soil, leaning against a tree trunk. She guessed that he had been thrown from the horse when it fell. She noticed his right ankle was twisted unnaturally. His life wasn't in danger, but he would not be able to walk by himself.

The man pointed his sword at her. “Come any closer and I'll cut your throat.”

She sat on a fallen tree. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Go ahead,” repeated Jane, “cut my throat with your sword, if you can.”

“No peasant shows me disrespect and lives.” Grasping a low-lying branch the man tried to stand, but fell to the ground in agony, dropping his sword. He grasped his ankle and moaned in pain.

Jane crossed her arms and smiled. “Well, I guess you may as well stop talking about cutting my throat. You know…you look very familiar. You're not a tax collector or a regular soldier. You must be one of Lord Gilbert's officials.”

The man turned his head and glared at Jane. “I'm not one of Lord Gilbert's officials, I
am
Lord Gilbert.” Lord Gilbert's features relaxed. “You know what that means, of course. I'm a wealthy man. I can make it worth your while if you help me.”

Lord Gilbert held out a pouch and opened it so Jane could see the gold coins inside. “I can give you more gold than you'd see in a lifetime. All you have to do is walk to the battlefield and call some of my men to take me back to my castle.”

Jane grasped the leather purse that held the hair of her husband and sons. “I don't want your gold coins, but I am willing to help you, if you return to me what is mine.”

Lord Gilbert's eyes narrowed. “I don't normally barter with peasants, but I am willing to make an exception.”

Jane smiled. “I'm sure you are.”

Lord Gilbert's hand grabbed the hilt of this sword and his knuckles turned white as he squeezed it with all his might. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Wipe that smile off your face, peasant. I will not be mocked. This one time I am willing to forgive you for using that tone of voice with me, but only this one time.”

Ignoring Lord Gilbert, Jane opened the leather pouch and leaned closer so he could see the strands of hair. “I want my husband and my three sons back.”

“That's an easy request,” replied Lord Gilbert. “I'll grant them full pardon and have them released from my dungeon.”

“They aren't in your dungeon.”

“Well, then, if they are in my service, I'll release them. Before the sun rises tomorrow they'll be back in your village.”

Jane stood and pointed at the field, her voice shaking now. “They aren't in your dungeon. They were in your service, and they all died fighting for you on that field.”

“That's impossible. I can't bring your sons or husband back from the dead.”

“In that case,” replied Jane, “we don't have a bargain. You'll have to go and call the soldiers yourself.”

Jane sat on the fallen tree again and closed the pouch. “They died fighting over a stupid little piece of land.”

“It is not a stupid little piece of land. It belongs to me. You should be proud that they gave their lives in my service. They died for their liege lord, and there is no greater honour. And since your husband and sons fought under my banner, you are my subject and will refer to me as ‘My Lord.'”

Jane had heard enough. “You are not my lord. You are nothing but a spoiled child who bullies others to keep his favourite toy.”

“You have gone too far, peasant! When my men return for me, I'll have them cut out your tongue. No one speaks to me like that.”

Jane stood up and looked toward the field. “I wonder who will discover you first, your soldiers or your brother's soldiers? If Lord Frederick's knights return, I doubt you'll be able to outrun them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, where's your personal guard? A nobleman always has some loyal knights that stay close and make sure he isn't harmed in battle. But your personal guard is nowhere to be seen. I'd say they've all been killed—or yielded.”

Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He held his sword closer. He knew she was right. There was no guarantee it would be his knights who'd find him.

Just then, Jane heard footsteps and turned to see a woman crossing the stream.

The woman paused, staring at the symbol on Lord Gilbert's breastplate. She took a step backwards and began to turn…

Jane stood up. “Do not be alarmed. You don't have to run. I am Jane. And this, believe it or not, is Lord Gilbert.”

“My name is Mary,” replied the woman. “I had been married for less than a year before Lord Frederick's men came and took my Richard off to fight. Now I'm with child and my husband's body lies on that field.”

Lord Gilbert pointed his sword toward the new woman. “Did you hear that? Her husband fought for my brother's army. She's the enemy. She's been sent to kill me!”

Mary held out empty hands.

Jane looked back at Lord Gilbert. “I don't see any sword.”

“Then she's hiding a dagger. She's going to try and kill me. I can see it in her eyes.”

Jane pointed at Mary and laughed. “She's not hiding a dagger. Her dress is so threadbare she's lucky it's hiding her.”

Jane turned towards the field as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I lost my youngest son, Tom, today. He died fighting over that cursed field just like his father and brothers.”

Mary held out a small piece of cloth. “This came from my husband Richard's shirt. I have a younger brother. They haven't taken him yet, but I fear it won't be long.”

Jane spoke with a soft voice. “How many more will die because of one small field? The fighting has to end.”

Lord Gilbert glared at Jane and pounded his fist in the wet gravel. “Why are you just standing there? Kill her before she kills me!”

Jane turned to face Lord Gilbert. “Why? She's no threat to anyone. She came here to mourn, not to fight.”

Mary walked over and stood next to Jane. “What are you going to do?”

The nobleman held up the pouch of gold coins. “I'll tell you what she's going to do. She's going to take an offer made by a generous lord and make sure she has enough to eat and clothe herself. All her offences will be forgiven. The harsh words she spoke today were caused by the distress of losing a loved one.”

Jane bent over and picked up a rock that filled the palm of her hand.

Lord Gilbert smiled. “That's right, she's the enemy.”

Mary stepped back. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Don't worry,” replied Jane, “this rock isn't for you.”

Jane grasped the rock firmly in her hand and walked around the tree until she had a clear view of Lord Gilbert through the branches. She glanced over at Mary. “No one else wants that field. All we have to do to stop the bloodshed is kill one of them.”

“You wouldn't dare,” whispered Lord Gilbert.

Mary picked up a rock and stood next to Jane. “I suppose it doesn't matter which one dies, as long as the fighting stops.”

Jane hurled the rock at Lord Gilbert. He put up his arm to shield his face and the rock struck his arm. Mary's rock hit the side of his face.

“No!” Lord Gilbert's desperate scream filled the air as blood trickled down the side of his face. Nothing like this was supposed to happen. He was supposed to ride out onto the battlefield surrounded by knights carrying his banners. He'd wave his sword, then watch the battle at a safe distance. Lord Gilbert grabbed a branch and pulled himself to his feet as the women picked up two more rocks. “Put down those rocks or you will both hang!”

The nobleman swung his sword with his free hand, but it was useless: the women stood just beyond reach of his blade. The next rock Jane threw smashed against the leg with the broken ankle. Lord Gilbert screamed in pain, let go of the branch and fell into the stream, dropping his sword. He choked and gasped for breath as he lifted his head above the flowing water. He listened for the two women, expecting another attack, but all he heard was the sound of the flowing current. It was over. The women had run away.