Volume One: The Knight of the Forest Chapter 67: Only Among Companions Does True Hatred Lay Bare

“Oh, my goodness!” The bard Drew made to rise and bow, but Berrion pressed him back down and shook his head, signaling him not to stand on ceremony. Drew grinned and said, “So it’s the esteemed Sir Berrion! I must truly compose and sing you a long ballad, so that all may know your renown, and that Norland Keep is a fine place indeed.”

“You are also welcome to visit Norland Keep as my guest. My people would surely enjoy the marvelous tales you bring.” As he spoke, Berrion drew three more denars from his purse and dropped them into Drew’s hat once again.

Such generosity left Drew momentarily dumbstruck. Though only in his twenties, he had followed his master across the land in the life of a bard since childhood. After his master’s death, he had lived five years singing his way alone, never having received such a handsome reward.

He was about to say something to Berrion, but Berrion waved him to silence, raising his goblet and inviting him to drink. “Better to save your words for your art than to waste them on thanks. Rest well tonight. I’ll be staying in Yanwick Shore for a few more days—perhaps we’ll meet again. If we do, I expect a long ballad from you.”

To be drinking and conversing with a lord younger than himself, yet so affable and easy in manner, filled Drew’s heart with warmth. Since he could remember, the nobles he’d met—though they might invite bards to their keeps—treated them no better than serfs, never as people in their own right.

But today, he had encountered this young lord, who treated him with the respect of a friend. At that moment, Drew felt he would gladly die for Sir Berrion.

He soon calmed himself, remembering that Berrion’s respect stemmed from his kindness—it did not mean Drew should presume to treat him as a peer. That would be far too presumptuous.

Having wandered for years, Drew would not make such a mistake. He bowed deeply once more, thanked Berrion, and moved on to seek rewards from the other onlookers.

After Drew left, Bran looked at Berrion in puzzlement. “Master, why did you reward that bard with so much money? After we part ways, he might not even compose the long ballad you asked for about Norland Keep. I always thought these bards were no different from wandering merchants—none of them can be trusted.”

Berrion, amused by the boy’s grumbling, patiently explained, “If it were some drunken, slovenly older bard, I wouldn’t have rewarded him so generously. But this Drew—I believe in him. Though his life is surely hard, he keeps himself clean; his simple clothes are neat, and you can tell he has a sunny heart and a love for life. Such optimism is worth trusting.

“Also, you’ve seen other bards, haven’t you? Did you notice how Drew’s manner is different? Most bards either prattle insincerely or recite without feeling. But every word Drew sings is filled with emotion. When he plays his lyre, he becomes the hero of his own tale; the joys and sorrows of his stories feel like his own, and we are moved by his feeling, not merely entertained by a story.

“Do you think a man who loves his art so deeply, who treats his craft with such earnestness, would refuse to compose a new ballad?”

Bran scratched his head, then nodded with a smile. “You’re right, Master. Your observations are always so keen.”

Berrion ruffled his hair and chided him in jest, “You follow me every day—learn some of my wisdom, not just all my bad habits. Otherwise, your father Gamlin will have your hide.”

Bran ducked his head from the gentle tap and grinned. “I’ve learned plenty from you, Master. My father won’t beat me. And anyway, why should he? I’m a knight’s squire now, and he’s just a common official.”

“Hey, you little rascal! Just a squire and you’re already looking down on your old man? Well, today I’ll beat you on his behalf!” He made to cuff the boy again, but Bran darted out of reach.

Bran, hiding to one side with a cheeky grin, called out, “Oh Master, do me a favor—promise you won’t hit me on the head anymore, or I’ll turn stupid, and you won’t want a dim-witted squire at your side.”

At that, Berrion laughed and made as if to chase him. Bran ran off, calling over his shoulder that he needed to relieve himself.

Left alone, Berrion ate a bit more, satisfied after wine and a hearty meal. He thought that once Bran returned, they could retire for the night.

Just as he drew a piece of coarse grass-paper from his breast to wipe his mouth, Bran returned, looking grave. He sat beside Berrion and whispered, “Master, I fear the bard you rewarded may be in trouble.”

Seeing the boy’s serious expression, Berrion lowered his voice. “What’s happened? What did you find?”

Bran explained, “When I went behind the bushes near the wall just now, I overheard some men plotting. One was a bard, the other three I didn’t recognize. The bard told them that Drew’s presence in Yanwick Shore this week had ruined his own business, and that Drew had made a good haul today.

“So he wanted them to help kill this out-of-town bard and split the money four ways. The other three agreed without hesitation. They planned to ambush Drew on his way back to his lodgings and take his life—after all, a dead body on the streets of Yanwick Shore is nothing out of the ordinary.”

Berrion frowned, but soon relaxed and smiled. “I’ll leave the decision to you. What do you think we should do?”

Bran was surprised by the responsibility, but quickly saw it as a test—Berrion was gauging how much he’d learned in their time together.

After a moment’s thought, Bran replied, “Master, I believe we should intervene, for three reasons. First, Drew is useful to you—we hope his songs will bring you fame and attract people to Norland Keep. Second, our opponents are just four thugs with little more than sticks and knives; the two of us can handle them easily. Third, and most important, Drew is a talent in your eyes, but such men do not pledge loyalty lightly. If we save his life, gratitude may win his fealty, and he might become one of our own at Norland Keep.”

Berrion nodded in satisfaction. “Good lad, you’ve learned a thing or two these past months. And as I said, tonight we’ll do as you say. You make the plan.”

Bran’s eyes lit up at the praise, and he thumped his chest with confidence. “Leave it to me, Master! There’ll be no trouble.”

Drew the bard was in fine spirits. He’d performed since afternoon—seven shows in all, leaving him exhausted, but patting the purse at his breast, he felt nothing but joy. He’d received twelve denars in reward that day, five of them from Berrion.

He exchanged the heavy copper coins for silver with a vendor by the food stalls, drew out a few more coppers to have his friend the innkeeper refill his leather wine-skin with ale, and bought some meat to go. Tonight, he would treat himself.

With his lyre slung on his back, food and drink in hand, Drew hummed a tune on his way back to the mule-and-horse inn where he was staying, dreaming gleefully of a bright future.

The knight’s tournament would begin the day after next and last three days. He expected to earn at least thirty more denars, and with the money he’d saved these past years, he could buy a small house in Yanwick Shore. He would no longer be a wandering bard, but a resident performer in a city tavern. With more effort, he could save enough to marry and start a family, fulfilling his late master’s wish for him to live a normal life.

Just as Drew was lost in hope for the future, a figure slipped from the shadows at the street corner ahead. In the moonlight, Drew saw it was a fellow bard. When Drew first arrived, this man’s pitch had been near his own, but Drew’s performances had drawn the crowds away, and he hadn’t returned to the square since.

Drew didn’t know what this man wanted, but he understood well enough that stealing another’s livelihood bred resentment. Wishing to avoid trouble, Drew turned to take another route.

But as he turned, he saw three men behind him, armed with clubs and knives, eyeing him like prey.

Now Drew realized the danger he was in. His hand loosened, and his food and drink fell to the ground. He said nervously, “Who are you? What do you want?”

One of the men flicked the blade of his dagger and smiled slyly. “Young bard, we just want all the money you’ve got. If you’re smart, hand it over. Otherwise, if I have to search you myself, you’ll regret it.”

Hearing they only wanted money, Drew’s nerves settled a little. He’d faced danger before, traveling with his master. Steeling himself, he said, “Gentlemen, I’ll give you all the money I have, but you must promise me safe passage. Step back ten paces and I’ll throw you the purse. How about it?”

“This brat thinks we’re fools! Enough talk—kill him and all the money’s ours. If we waste any more time and the city guards come, we’re finished,” snarled the rival bard from the shadows.

At his words, the three men wasted no more time. They rushed Drew, who snatched his lyre from his back and swung it desperately to keep them at bay, shouting for help and hoping some resident, or perhaps the city patrol, might come to his aid.

But no rescue came. Who among the townsfolk would risk angering thugs for a stranger? As for the city patrol, who knew when they would pass by?

Drew’s cries went unanswered, and the attackers grew more ferocious. His lyre was struck several times, his body hit with clubs, sweat pouring from the pain.

His strength began to fail; his swings weakened. One man kicked him hard in the back, knocking him to the cobbles. Drew fell, groaning in pain.

Now the rival bard drew a hatchet from his belt and strode forward to finish Drew off. Drew closed his eyes in despair—this time, he truly believed his life was over.