Tales of the HOly knight

Throughout the great many nation states which stand together as the Holy Empire of Zephyr, there is no legend which is told as often as that of the Holy Knight. However, a single truth of the tale has yet to be agreed upon. Like much of what is spread through rumor, facts were lost on their way from mouth to ear. One exaggeration of the story often resulted in the next iteration becoming even more obscured. There were some facts which stood the tests of time and travel, such as the title given by the Emperor, the war in which the Holy Knight fought, and the place of origin for the farmhand turned titan. He had not been born a great warrior, but was raised on his father’s farmland found at the edge of the continent. 

Found along a river that flowed from the great mountains to the east into glittering shores that reached beyond the Empire’s sovereignty to the west, the Holy Knight’s home of pasture remained long after his leave of its comforts. Luscious green and scattered with sheep, the surrounding landscape was rolling fields of plenty. Shepherds and their herding dogs roamed the fields among livestock. Life here was simple, peaceful. It was not a place you’d expect to bring forth an exceptional war hero, and so it seemed only natural that when Marcella first learned of the Holy Knight, he captured her every interest. Already a curious girl by nature, Marcella was known for her incessant questioning of the world around her. Why did sunflowers drop their seeds? Why do horses wear shoes? Why does the man in the statue carry a sword?

Most of her questions revolved around that statue at the center of town. It seemed out of place, this great marble knight surrounded by farmland. The statue posed the knight atop his destrier mount in the full battle regalia of his station. The carver had been careful to include even the most minute detail, from each feather in his helmet’s plumage to the delicate embroidery on his cape. A longsword remained sheathed at his side while he brandished the nation’s flag in his right hand and a shield in his left. His sword certainly wasn’t a farmer’s tool. Marcella knew how farmers used a staff or a hammer or even an axe, but a sword? This marble man would not need such a weapon here, so why did he carry one?

“It’s because that is a statue of the Holy Knight,” her father explained when she asked that particular question. It was a bright afternoon as they walked through the square, on their way to discuss some aging cattle with the butcher.

“What is a holy knight?” she asked.

“It was a special name given to that man by the Emperor.” His response was kept short as he tried to focus on the task which brought him and his daughter into the town. 

“Why did he get a special name?”

“He was very brave and saved the Empire.” 

“What did he do?”

“He did lots of things,” her father said, distracted as he continued his business, “but I can tell you more when we return back home.”

While her father worked, Marcella found a place to sit where she could study the statue. Even for a child, its craftsmanship was mesmerizing. She wanted to know what made one man so great to earn such a tribute. Why was he the only statue? Were there no other brave men who also had statues? Did her father know this man? Would she ever get to meet him? 

When they did finally return home at the end of the day, her father had long forgotten the questions and Marcella had become too enchanted by her own imaginings to ask them again. If this knight had been so great to warrant such admiration, surely he was a hero she should look up to. Driven by her dreams, she made a point of asking whoever she interacted with about this stone man who watched over them. What she was surprised to find was that each person she asked gave a different version of the tale.

The first she learned from the butcher while on another errand for her father. According to him, the Holy Knight was responsible for single handedly ending the Border Wars. Over four years of fighting he rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army until finally he became commander of the cavalry. Until that point the fighting had been at standstill, neither side able to overpower the other. And when the infantry soldiers failed to push back against the enemy, the Holy Knight charged in. A pure surge of power, wielding only a longsword and a shield, he defeated enemy after enemy, striking them down as easily as one swats a fly, until there were none left who dared face him.

“I suppose that’s what being brave means?” she asked the butcher, recalling the few details she had gotten from her father.

“Of course,” he grinned, “becoming strong and fighting bad people is the key to being brave.” 

“That’s not really what happened,” the butcher’s wife interrupted, stepping on her husband’s toes once she’d overheard the violent tale he was spinning for the young girl. He jumped back, pulling his crushed boot with him, as his wife took over the conversation. She told a different version of the legend: the Holy Knight was actually a great diplomat. He served as an advisor to the Emperor. In times of negotiation, the Emperor would call upon this great orator to foster peaceful relations with other nations. In fact, the Holy Knight is responsible for the assimilation of most nation states into the Empire’s jurisdiction. He achieved this not through battle but through his words. This is why his sword remains sheathed in the statue, he never needed to use it as he could soothe tensions before they escalated to the point of aggression. When fighting had erupted elsewhere during the Border Wars, the Holy Knight was sent to end the conflict, and he did so without ever drawing his blade.

“You see, sometimes being brave means knowing when not to fight,” she assured Marcella. 

Though most of the other stories Marcella was told about the Holy Knight were more inline with the theme of battle like that of the butcher’s tale. A fisherman who came into town with goods from the river said that the Holy Knight had started his battle experience as a traveling mercenary. He moved across the continent, helping those in need. He defeated those who sought to take advantage of the weak and vulnerable. He was a despised enemy of brigands and pirates alike. Word spread of this solo mercenary, and he was recruited by the Imperial Army at the time of the Border Wars, where his unorthodox style of fighting took the formal military of the enemy by surprise.

“What mattered most,” the fisherman said, “was that the Holy Knight valued the safety of others over his own. He was brave enough to fight for the people who needed him most.”

“Even though he didn’t know them?” Marcella asked, surprised that someone could be so selfless. 

“Even then,” the fisherman nodded. 

“That wasn’t the story I heard,” the blacksmith cut into their conversation as he came to purchase fish from the other man. He told them what he knew: the Holy Knight was the personal bodyguard of the Emperor. Wherever his Imperial Majesty traveled to, the Knight accompanied him. In fact, the Holy Knight prevented an assassination attempt on the Emperor that was the spark of the Border Wars. Following his liege into the battles that followed, and ultimately claiming victory, the Knight was honored for his loyalty and strength. 

“The Emperor had been amazed that one man could defend him with such bravery, since war meant an endless target on the Emperor’s head,” the blacksmith finished. 

“So bravery means facing danger?” she looked between the two men. That, they could agree on, regardless of their different stories to get to that conclusion. 

When she returned home, Marcella shared these things she had learned with her mother. But even after hearing what the others had to say, her mother told her still another story: The Holy Knight, discontented with small-town farm life, had left his home and went on to join the Imperial Army. His years of youthful strength were spent in times of peace and his exceptional skills with a sword were never needed. The Border Wars began when the Holy Knight had become too old to fight in the battles himself. Instead, he trained the recruits for the might of the Empire. Some say that the Knight had the soldiers so well prepared for battle that the Imperial Army suffered no casualties in the war. For his strength he imparted on the younger generations, he was honored.

“How does that make him brave?” Marcella questioned. “If he never faced danger himself, then how could he be called brave?”

Her mother thought a moment before replying, “Sometimes bravery means putting on a strong face for others. His bravery came through in those who did fight.” 

These ideas of bravery were the only unifying attribute of the legendary Holy Knight. In a story so different in each rendition that was told, Marcella could at least be sure of this. The Holy Knight was a brave man, and being a brave man was important. 

Marcella continued to visit the town regularly, even after hearing every story there was to be heard. When versions began to be repeated by others she asked, she realized that she’d heard them all. Rather than listening for more tales, she spent her time running errands for her parents or just visiting when she had a break from her work on the farm. So long as she was back in time for dinner she was allowed to go as she pleased. Sometimes she went simply because she enjoyed the walk. The fresh air and the scenery of the countryside reminded her how beautiful her home was. The road between her family farm and town was a dirt path well beaten down by hooves, wheels, and feet. On one side you could look out to the grazing pastures where the cows strolled at their own pace in search of their next meal. On the other side was the river and a stretch of golden sunflowers that grew wildly on their own. 

On a cool afternoon, Marcella was on her way home walking alongside the fence that kept the cows within the fields when she saw an old man sitting with his back propped against the post. His horse was drinking from the river. She might’ve thought the man was asleep, he seemed rather comfortable with his eyes closed and his boots sitting beside him rather than on his feet. His peaceful demeanor was contagious, Marcella felt drawn to relax beside him and watch her worries flow downstream along the river. But what made this scene odd was that Marcella did not know the man. After such time getting to know the people of the town in search of tales of the Holy Knight, Marcella had come to know each name and face she saw. This old man was a stranger.

As she came closer to him, she thought it best to call out to him, “Are you alright sir?” 

He opened his eyes slowly and raised his hand to shade them as he turned to face the voice that addressed him. “I am, thank you dear. Just resting a moment.”

“Are you headed into town?”

“I am.”

She assumed he would be unfamiliar with the way and pointed backwards, “If you follow this road in the direction I came you’ll reach the town fairly quickly.” Then she couldn’t help but add, “You’ll be able to see the statue of the Holy Knight in the square.”

The old man sat up straighter when she mentioned the statue. “The Holy knight, huh,” he fought back a smirk, “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“You know about the Holy Knight?” She asked, hardly able to mask her excitement. She began rocking back and forth on her feet. Her gaze moved towards his saddle, as the low sun beams caught the edge of a sword. A real sword, not one of stone. She looked back at the man, her eyes glinting like the blade in the sun. 

“Better than most,” was the answer he gave.

“I’ve heard a lot of different stories about him, but no one can seem to settle on one tale.” Marcella told him what she’d heard from others, the words not coming out fast enough to match her enthusiasm. “He was the bravest man to ever live,” she finished quite definitively. 

The old man laughed to himself, “That is certainly flattering. Though that’s not the way I would have it told.”

She considered for a moment, then figured she may as well ask, “Maybe you could tell me your story?”

“If you’d like,” and he motioned for her to join him. Once she had settled in the grass, he proceeded to tell her his tale of the Holy Knight. Again, many details were similar to some of the ones she’d heard before; he was a cavalry commander, he served during the Border Wars, and he was granted his title by the Emperor. “But he never could have achieved these things on his own. You see, every commander is only as good as the men who fight beside him. The Holy Knight may have been brave, but he had men under his command who were ten times as strong and as brave as he.”

“Were you one of his soldiers?”

“No, but I did know him well.”

With her curiosity in strong form, Marcella couldn’t resist needling him for more information. “What happened to him after the war?”

“After the war, when the times of celebration and feasting were over, he decided to travel to some distant shore, where he might live his days in the peace of being unrecognized.”

This seemed to stump Marcella. She couldn’t understand why anyone would give up the great admiration the Holy Knight received. Even long after his time, everyone in her life knew about him. Someone who worked so hard and had been so brave deserved the honors which the Holy Knight received. And yet, something about this man persuaded Marcella to believe him. She’d only just met the old man but she trusted that what he told her was the honest truth. There was a wisdom in his gaze that seemed to ease her doubts. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when the man’s horse began to stir and stomp the ground.

“I’d be good not to keep you any longer than I already have,” the man started, putting his boots back on. He pulled himself to his feet with a rung of the fence and turned towards his antsy horse still standing next to the river. “See,” he said pointing in that direction, “the sunflowers have turned their faces away from us. Your mother must be worried.” 

True, Marcella was just now noticing how much time had passed. She stood, brushed the grass off her skirt, and thanked the man for sharing his story. He smiled, gave her a courteous bow, and with some effort got back into his saddle. Marcella waved him off as he made his way toward the town. She kept thinking about the new story of the Holy Knight, and wondered how this old man could have known a version which no one else ever told. But she didn’t have time to consider as she ran to the house where her mother was waiting for her on the porch. It wasn’t until Marcella went into town the next day, and the wisdom she saw in the gaze of the statue of the Holy Knight carried a new familiarity, that she realized who the old man had been.

About the Author

Brigid Whelihan is a senior English major with a concentration in Creative Writing. She gets involved in as much as she can at Arcadia, having worked as Co-President for Arcadia For The Kids, Treasurer for Sigma Tau Delta, Consultant in the Writing Center, and Blogger for Because Arcadia. Her proudest moment as a Creative Writing major was being compared to J.R.R. Tolkien, who coincidentally is her favorite writer.