Sir Bentley and Holbrook Court (2 page)

CLAD WITH ZEAL

I am Cedric of Chessington, Knight of the Prince and servant of the King. Although the edge of my sword has met the steel of many a dark foe, I have for a time yielded to my mission of parchment and pen. I do so not begrudgingly but with zeal. Why? Because zeal to serve the King and His Son fuels one's heart to courageously seek the truth and to tell it.

Sir Bentley's tale shows us this zeal, for he was not content with the traditions of mere men. The truth of the Prince would not let his soul rest until he had discovered it. As a former wealthy Noble Knight, he had much to lose by pursuing this truth, but his heart was clad with zeal. And in his quest of discovery he came to learn of the beauty of mercy as well. Sir Bentley was not only brave enough to follow at great cost a call he did not yet understand, but compassionate enough to follow it into the ugly places of the world, places where men and women cry out with need. And there he too became a storyteller… as do all of us who try to walk in the footsteps of our Prince.

I myself was once a pauper, but the Prince made me a knight. Listen then to the tale of a knight who once became a pauper. Perhaps you will agree that the story of Sir Bentley and his noble pursuit inspires all who hear it to discover this truth: the King reigns… and His Son!

YOUNG NOBLE
KNIGHT

“Bentley of Chessington, do you swear to uphold the Articles of the Code, to defend Chessington and her citizens from enemies both outside and within her borders?” Lord Kifus's voice echoed through the great hall of the palace.

“I do.” Young Bentley looked up at Kifus. Sand-colored hair formed loose curls around the young man's neck and ears. His square, cleanshaven jaw revealed a small, faint scar—a badge to remind him never to become prideful about his considerable abilities as a swordsman. Bent-ley's shoulders were broad, and he carried himself with the distinctive posture of a nobleman. In spite of his comely appearance and his social charm, however, Bentley did not hold himself in high regard, and thus there was very little to dislike about the young man.

“Do you swear to uphold the honor of the Noble Knights, placing the protection of your fellow brothers-in-arms above your own?” “I do,” Bentley replied.

Nearly all two hundred Noble Knights were present to witness the knighting of one more squire into their brotherhood. It was a time-honored tradition that often followed the family lines of the wealthiest
men in Chessington, and such was the case with Bentley. Behind the Noble Knights stood two to three hundred highly respected citizens of Chessington, for this was a significant event for both the Noble Knights and the citizenry.

“Do you take this oath without reservation, fully understanding the authority and responsibilities granted to you by the King—an oath that binds you to the order of the Noble Knights until death?”

Bentley hesitated, looking past Kifus toward the two men standing behind him. His father, Sir Barrington, and Sir York, the man who trained him at sword—his role model and his mentor. Could any two men be more different?

Bentley looked toward York and then to his father. A few seconds passed, and the delay became awkward. Barrington gazed at his son, smiled, and nodded. The room filled with tension, and Kifus's gaze became stone hard.

Bentley looked back to the white-haired knightly leader, an icon of the perfect knight in many eyes. This was what Bentley had wanted his whole life, and yet something tugged upon his soul from another direction. It was those last few words that caused him to hesitate, for such an oath was a seal that would establish the course of his life forever.

He repeated the words in his mind:

“Do you take this oath without reservation… an oath that binds you to the order of the Noble Knights until death?”

What could be more honorable than service to the King?

“I do.” Bentley lowered his head in submission.

As if the doors of a flooded chamber had opened, the tension abated. Kifus lifted his brilliant silver sword to just above Bentley's shoulder.

“Then I dub thee Sir Bentley, protector of Chessington and Noble Knight of the King!”

He touched the flat of the blade to each of Bentley's shoulders, and
a roar of shouts and acclamation filled the great hall. Bentley stood and Kifus offered his arm as a token of brotherhood.

“Well done, Sir Bentley. You are young but well deserving of the honor.”

“Thank you, Lord Kifus.”

Kifus turned to greet some of the approaching prestigious knights and citizens. Bentley's father stepped forward and embraced his son.

“I am proud of you, my son.” Barrington smiled broadly through his cropped salt-and-pepper beard.

“Thank you, Father. You and you alone have been my inspiration.”

York stepped forward and grasped Bentley's arm.

“
Sir Bentley
… has a nice ring to it, aye, laddie?” He slapped Bentley hard on the shoulder with a meaty palm.

Bentley bowed his head toward York. “I am indebted to you for all the training you have given me, sir.”

York's smile vanished as his mind seemed to return to a former preoccupation. “Aye, and ye'll be needing those skills in the days to come. The Followers continue to be a menace to our cause, and Kifus tells me our missions to eradicate them will increase.”

“Yes, sir,” Bentley replied, but something in his heart resisted the words. “What was it like before?”

York squinted and cocked his head to one side.

“Before the…ah…Followers?” Bentley added. It was an unusual question, and it conveyed much more than curiosity. Those few words carried a subtle message that raised the eyebrows of both York and his father.

York looked back and forth between Barrington and Bentley. When he spoke, his words vibrated with passion. “It was a time when the authority of the Noble Knights was never questioned! That's why we must fight well in coming days. The lingering effects of that dead Stranger will end, and we will restore the order of the Noble Knights to
its rightful place when we eradicate His imbecile Followers.” York's countenance had assumed a familiar ferocity, his eyes beneath their bushy black brows seemed to shoot forth fiery darts.

Neither Bentley nor his father said a word. It was exactly the response Bentley had expected, and he wasn't sure why he had even asked the question. The momentary awkward silence between them ended when his mother took his arm and a dozen other knights and citizens moved in to offer congratulations.

When the knighting ceremony was over and the accolades were finished, Bentley lingered behind in the great hall. It was a day he had looked forward to for a long time. He took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the moment. It felt good to be a Noble Knight… almost perfect.

Almost.

Bentley's heart pounded hard in his chest. He readied his sword in a midguard stance as he stood face to face with a fierce warrior whose markings Bentley had never seen before. The warrior yelled and initiated a diagonal cut that nearly blew Bentley's sword from his grip. Preoccupied with his own survival, he was barely conscious of the clanging of other swords nearby.

He tightened his grip and countered with a rising cut, followed by a horizontal slice. His sword was met by the nearly immovable dark blade of the warrior, and he had to retreat to avoid the next deadly slice.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his fellow Noble Knights fall to the ground—and realized that he, York, and his other five companions could shortly succumb to the same fate. The five warriors they faced were much more than mere marauders; they had the look of seasoned war veterans. The Noble Knights had the advantage in numbers only, for the skill and power of these men far surpassed anything they had ever experienced.

Bentley considered his next move. How could they have made such a serious miscalculation and come to such a desperate situation? The months following his knighting ceremony had been filled with raids on the Followers, but each week seemed more intense than the previous. This was already their third mission this week.

They had received news from an informant that a handful of Followers was meeting near a hut in the hollow at the northwest edge of Chessington. When they arrived, a strange old woman had yelled at them and cursed them from afar. York had ignored her and insisted they search the hut and the surrounding area. When they dismounted and neared the hut, these five massive warriors had attacked. Bentley had barely been able to draw his sword in time before one warrior launched a deadly slice toward him. Ever since, he had been fighting for his life.

Another powerful slice came terrifyingly close, and Bentley ducked. He heard the
swoosh
of his enemy's blade pass just above his head. Bentley initiated another rising cut, but missed and found himself slightly off balance. He knew that such an experienced man of war would capitalize on Bentley's mistake—and he did. The next slice came from Bent-ley's left, and he was only able to raise his sword for partial protection before the grisly blade blasted through his defense.

The concussion on his sword carried on to Bentley's left spaulder and slammed into his helmet. Bentley careened to the right, scrambling in vain to keep his footing, then crashed to the ground.