Hidden Power

    At the far end of the garden there stood a stone wall whose ancient edifice was covered by creeping vines. A stately elm tree grew just outside the wall on the bank of a brook that ran East to West along the length of the property. Robert had often sat with his back against that wall in the shade of the stately elm, listening to the babble of the brook, while reading a favorite book. Unlike his school books, which he despised reading, the stories he read by the wall were full of adventure. They contained stories about boys who escaped their tedious and unfulfilling lives to run away to live a life on the sea. They contained stories about boys becoming men on the field of battle and earning their eternal glory by dying at the hands of their enemies. 

    Robert’s father would often scold him for reading these books filled with what he described as “non-sense”. “You’re too old for fairy tales boy,” he would bark. “You need to be reading your history, your mathematics, and your philosophy!” Usually after such a rebuke Robert’s father would take his book and leave behind something he preferred his son to read. Other times he would bid his son practice his physical fitness. “This world is no place for a weakling or a dullard,” his father would say.

    Robert often wished to go beyond the wall, across the brook, and into the unknown beyond but the wall had no gate. Expertly crafted, the surface was too smooth to scale. The vines that clung to it were too brittle to climb. In winter, Robert would hurl snowballs at the wall, imagining them as cannon shot and his arm a piece of field artillery. He imagined the wall tumbling down and his escape to the world that lay beyond.

    In his twelfth year, Robert had read of a siege and the sappers who undermined the walls of a great fortress. To his dismay the wall seemed as deep as it was high. To his further disappointment his father had caught him in the act. Though not a violent man, Robert’s father could be ill tempered. He felt more than the sting of a sharp rebuke that day.

    Robert grew up in the garden, always in the shadow of the wall. Both seen as his friend and foe, the wall was his protection and his jailer. For as much as he could be taken to distant lands, lost in a book with back against his wall, it remained a palpable reminder that Robert was separated from the adventure he sought. 

    Robert woke to the ringing of bells, just a month shy of his sixteenth birthday. At first he did not notice. The church bells always announced the hour. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shook off the slowness of slumber he noticed that these bells were tolling differently. There was an urgency to them. They were ringing out chaos and they were not alone. Bells sound out from across the countryside. Far and near, Robert could hear them and they were unceasing. He listened with a growing sense of unease as the bells kept ringing.

    Robert ran to his wall still in his bedclothes and stocking feet. The morning dew soaked through and was cold on his toes. He stood beneath his elm which seemed to have turned a deep bronze overnight. He stared at his wall, straining to hear anything but the babble of the brook and the ringing of the bells. 

    From within the halls of his home Robert began to hear the shouts of men. The clash and clatter of armor and sword. From outside the wall came the sound of men running and the splash of their boots cutting through the usually tranquil brook. And then a new sound came. The sound of ladders against his wall and that of men climbing. 

    The sounds from within his home became louder. Robert could hear the clash of steel on steel. He could hear the grunts, shouts, and screams of agony which Robert had only ever read about in his beloved books. From the top of the wall came shouts of “Find the boy! Find him!!” Robert could see these were no ordinary soldiers but peasants, armed with whatever weapons they could find. The were ordinary people, the people of the villages that Robert had read about. Their clothing dirty and torn. Some with blood already on their hands. Robert watched as the top of his wall filled with a swarm of angry men. He was so entranced by the sight of anything on top of his wall that he momentarily forgot to be afraid. The men began pulling their ladders up and lowering them down, inside his wall. And Robert was once again afraid.

    Robert ran now, unsure of which way to go. He bounded headlong into the chaos and violence that had overtaken his home. The once familiar corridors now seemed foreign to Robert. Conflict had replaced his peace. As much as he had wished for adventure he now wished even more for the comfort and safety of his father. “Get him! Kill him! Kill the boy!!” The shouts were now just steps behind him. Robert ran hard and fast, grateful to his father for pushing him, forcing him to be strong. He ran to the portico, finding it open to him for the first time in his life. He kept running and emerged, for the first, into his kingdom. He ran through the lines of the soldiers, his soldiers. They, in turn, closed rank and brought him under their protection.

    “The king is dead! Long live the king!” The soldiers used this as their battle cry as they repelled the advancing rabble. His father had taught him to be strong and wise. He had taught him to expect to be tested in life. “Your orders, m’lord?” The captain of the guard looked expectantly at him. Prince Robert, now King Robert, watched the battle, prepared to begin the adventure he had finally found.