The Driving of the Deer

Pengarron sat upon his granite throne. “Do they come,” spake he. 

    “Aye, my lord,” muttered the servant there, hushed hesitantly. 

    “Then send forth an usher, to welcome my messenger home.” 

    “Aye, my lord,” the servant bowed and hurriedly gestured outward to send guards to the door.  

    In the fields beyond the caste, along the vale where runneth the river, came a troop aride on horseback. Quiet rang the toot of hunting horn, deep thudded the hooves of deer. 

    “Why do they come,” spake Pengarron forlorn. 

    “For to hunt a wild boar, my lord,” the servant spake with fear apparent, and quiver in his throat. 

    Twas then the messenger arrived, as prompt as he had left. “Good day, my lord, and barons too,” he said slightly bereft, “I bring forth news of our fallen knight, not all so bad, not all so right.” 

    “Confound it man, your tale do tell, we’ve no time for formalities to dwell.” 

    “Very well, your fears I’ll quell,” so spake the messenger. 

    “Down the lea I strode by midday, walking in the oaken shade, till came upon a dale, did I, and across the way our knight I spied. He wore his hair all shoulder length, and bare-chested one could see his strength, and naturally, I did enquire, if this man had slave, servent or squire. He did not so I was told, and dared that I, Sir Rylas, would be bold, just as the hunting of the pig, I crossed the field in merry jig.” 

    “And then what,” spake Pengarron tempered, “what did he do once you had entered.” 

    With smirk or grin, Sir Ryals spoke, “I exchanged words with the braggart bloke, so kind he be, Lord I assure, if democratic you be we’d avert a war.” 

    “I’ve no quarrel with a farmer, I’ve no grief with the serfs, but a fallen knight come usurper, that drives my deer from my turfs, he shall receive no quarter. I fear not war, for my men shall slaughter at my word, and banish this heathen deserter.” 

    “Ah, true, my lord,” agreed Sir Rylas, “a comeuppance is due, perhaps, yet let me divulge the truths our fallen divulged, then your rage might lapse.” 

    “Go on,” scoffed the bitter king, waving royal hand flashing royal ring. 

    A courteous nod offered out thanks, “See,” began he, “upon the river banks, sat a tree all crooked. It stood apart from the hillside yonder, separated from your land all wooded. Yet thrived there did apple blossom, so he showed to me, yet the tangled oaks all aligned and planted could provide a banquet, hardly.” 

“Out with it man, what does he demand?” 

“I meant to go on, but with that your command, I shall curtail the brief.” 

“Be swift, man,” mocked Pengarron then, with notes of sweet relief. 

For all the while these men did speak, the hunting horn did blair and bleet. And the driving of the deer distract to gain king’s granite gaze enrapt. 

“Who be these men who poach in my country, who be these men who soon shall be, nout more than my quarry” 

“They are the weak, the downtrodden, the meek.” 

“Send out my guards,” cried the lord, in dour jarring shriek. 

“Very well,” the baron obliged, taking the whole affair within his stride. 

“Now then,” Sir Rylas croaked, “this fallen knight, he welcomed me, with undue care and courtesy, with manners fit for royal court, more deserved than I ought.” 

“Away with this nonsense, I care for it none, but please your tale, pray, do go on.” 

“I had intent to slay him, lord, I headed there so self assured, yet by his words alone he defeated me, and now I wish to relate them to thee?” 

“Go on, go on,” snapped flustered king, “I’ll hear it all, I’ll hear everything, if only you’d be quick with it, all irrelevance please omit.” 

“He told me of injustices, of stolen lands, and brutalities, he told me of the marcher men, who slaughter sheep in their pen, and pigs in their woods, and cows on their commons, and are as covered in blood as the chest of robins. In calm tone, he relayed it all to me, this sad tale of tragedy, here was his impassioned plea, verbatim I’ll relate it to thee.” 

Come messenger, what do you hear? A quiet on the wind? Tis a silence bourne of freedom, of oppressed no longer held in serfdom. Hear you not the clang of iron tools, which acted afore as manacles, for now they are unbound and educated, and their thirst will not be sated, until marcher lords have been predated, and new rule will, instead, be instigated. 

For Pengarron who believes him god, maintains his station atop the downtrod, by hoarding gold and stores of food in grainvats hidden, yes, unviewed, so that peasant, slave, and serf alike knows not the famine is but Offa’s dyke, a barrier to hold them back, to pen them into Pengarron’s trap. For food is replete, see my apple tree, which blooms ever so beautifully, year after year. I guarantee that wealth would be equal if we all were free. 

You see, it is of your kings belief, that peasant can’t bite the hand if they’ve no teeth, and knowledge is the currency used to prop up a monarchy. If those truths which Pengarron longs to hide are prised open, shared out wide, then uprising is certain, so shall I tear down that knowledge curtain, and lead us forth into a land free of serpent. 

“Be this not true, my wisened lord?” 

Outside the hoards had assembled beside the drawbridge, the royal herd slaughtered, the driving of the deer complete but for the White Hart in his tall tower. 

Pengarron poured his granite gaze over those below. “What can be done,” he asked of the messenger. 

“And wait,” spake he, commandingly, “there is yet more.” 

They draw the marrow from our very bones, and make us turn on our own, and the future is merely the thing we grasp, to save us from our sordid past, and we stand there in our horsehair shirts, and starve enough to feed on dirt dragged out from beneath our homes, and told are we to kill our own. 

In the shadow of riches we toil, denied that which is hard won from our soil, stolen boars and ale and wine, that which you dine upon is not rightfully thine. Tis ours and now we claim it back, and if we must then we’ll ransack your palaces and castle too, and fell the lords until all are slew. 

See, we will no longer bow to stoney eyes, we will no longer entertain thy lies, we will not give each other blows, we will come for you en masse, we’ll come for you in droves.

“That is what they say, my lord.” 

Pengarron quaked in misty dread. He gritted his teeth, becalmed his head. “What can be done,” he asked again, “I want these ungrateful swines slain.” 

“That be the problem,” replied the fallen knight, “stoney eyes have no sight.” And the messenger unbuttoned his cloak and let it fall from his leather yoke to reveal the knightly crest emblazoned there upon their armoured chest. And by his side a yew bow lied, a single arrow notched. 

“How could this be,” Pengarron cried, “how have you come to me?” 

“That messenger he would not yield, and off he rode from my field ready to warn you of my plans and spill the cards within my hands. That could not be, so say you and me, and thus must be done a dead most abohorrest. A single scream echoed through the forest. It was not heard by anyone save the trees. The trees, and one other, me. And ride then I did with my men, to drive the deer to your den, and enter here in disguise, overlooked by your granite eyes.” 

“Fair sport,” spake he, “you have played the game well, but know that bloodshed will be unleashed, a merry hell, if you strike me down and break the spell.” 

“War would come either way, on the morrow if not to-day.” 

“Aye, I see your mind is made, good sir knight you are rightful brave, and I shall be sad to see you in your grave.” 

The fallen knight strung his bow, pulled back the string and let go. The bolt pierced the silence stunned, and thus fell the face of the king outgunned. Bolt tore through the gristle of the lord most high, who promptly fell down in a slump to die. 

The horads outside stormed the castle walls, they hastened through the courtyard door. Tipped over chests, barrels, and safes galore. Portraits, statures, and tapestries they tore. Until their wealth was reclaimed and their lands were restored. 

Pengarron stood on his lordly seat, but there he stood no more.