THE THREE TRIALS OF SIR EDWIN
THE THREE TRIALS OF SIR EDWIN
The Three Trials of Sir Edwin
In a faraway Kingdom, in the days of high banners and oaken thrones, King Seymore ruled with wisdom and favor. Each year he invited the Knights of his realm to enjoy a lavish birthday feast, to celebrate his life with merriment and games. The sun was low and the horns of joy had faded from the revelry, when a shadow stretched long across the field beyond Seymore's castle. A rider clad in black approached, bearing the sigil of a peacock upon his herald.
He rode with poise and theater, greeting each that he passed, twirling his jousting lance above his head with great ceremony. The air whistled around him, calling out to him in excitement, even while the Knights nearby watched with either confusion or contempt. His horse trotted proudly to the center of the festivities, where King Seymore sat surrounded by his most favored Knights. There was no clear path to the middle of their assembly, but the black knight forged his own path, guiding his horse to leap over an empty seat and stand boldly before the King's lofty chair.
“Which among you noble men shall join me in a dueling game?" the knight said, his booming voice rattling from within his helm. He drew his sword and held it aloft. The silver caught the light of the setting sun, looking like a flaming brand. "Who dares prove himself in the sport of skill and steel?”
But though the challenge was heard by all, none among the King's cohort stirred, not even the King.
Then, by fate or by folly, Sir Edwin appeared. He was late to the party, and hurried to his seat, disheveled and flummoxed. The black knight, seeing him approach, took his appearance as an answer to his challenge, “Ah, Here stands my foe! Let us play!”
Sir Edwin, however, being of faint heart, lowered his brow, troubled. Nothing interested him less than exposing his trembling hands and unrefined training with a blade. Nevertheless, fearful even more of the shame that comes with embarrassing a King on his birthday, he quickly schemed a way to save face. “Peace is nobler than pride, sir knight” he said, feigning humility. “There is no honor in a game where needless blood may be shed. Better to make friends with broken bread than broken bones.”
The black-clad knight stood in silence, wounded not by blade but by Sir Edwin apparently meek and peace-seeking words. With a flourish and a bow, both a little less ostentatious than before, he departed. Then, removed from their sight, the whole assembly of the King cheered the humility and modesty of Sir Edwin, hailing him as a sage among warriors, a man who bested fire with stillness.
Edwin accepted the adulation, though in his heart, he felt the twinge of guilt and shame.
A year passed, and with each song sung to his name, Sir Edwin’s guilty heart sank further. He loathed the love he received and cursed the cowardice he had masked as meekness. Then came another birthday for King Seymore, and with it, another party held in the field outside the castle. The day was a delight until the sun began to set, when, as before, the rider in black returned to the affair. Once more he rode before the King, though without the flourishes and stylings of a year earlier. He spoke again, but this time his tongue dripped with scorn and wounded pride. “Is there no lion among your sheep; no one brave enough to defend the honor of his lord?” he croaked. “Or shall a King hide behind his bleating flock?”
The King kept his seat, too startled by such blatant disrespect to move. The other knights recoiled, offended by the black knight's words, but enough to defend the honor of their King. One knight rose, however. Seated at the King's right hand, Sir Edwin marched for the intruding knight, who saw him coming and dismounted, eager for last year's game to be completed a year late. Edwin, however, was in no mood for sport. He extended no pleasantries, gave no speech, and did not wait for any game to begin. Instead, he drew his sword and swung for the black night's neck. In one motion, he removed the boastful warrior head and stood over it, his shoulders heaving with every heavy breath. After a year of being called meek, and a year of self loathing, Edwin ended the conversations about him once and for all. He sheathed his sword and turned to face the King.
The hall gasped, then roared in delight, surprising Sir Edwin. "Great valor!" the King declared, rising from his seat, clapping his hands. The rest of the company joined, and soon, dozens of hands were patting his back and raising his arms, hailing him as the bravest of the brave, boldest of the bold, and truest of the true knights in the King's counsel.
Edwin accepted the adulation, though in his heart, he felt the twinge of guilt and shame.
He had not attacked the black knight to defend the honor of his king, but to silence the whispers in his own mind, the personal shame that twisted in his bowels every night. He could not take another year of being the fraud, the pretender, the peace-keeper when in fact he was just the coward, the craven, the fearful, and the feeble. The black knight did not deserve to die just to quell Edwin's self loathing, and yet, there he lay, headless and murdered.
For his valor, Edwin was given command of a noble company of knights, and tasked by the King to reclaim an old stronghold, lost years ago into the hands of a rival kingdom.
Onward they marched, and every knight's step was paved with praise for the courage and heroism of their captain. Songs were sung of the knight who defended the crown, and tales were told of his unshakable will. With each song and poem, Sir Edwin's guilt swelled.
At the gates of the stronghold, a parley was offered. From the enemy lines came the keep's current commander, a warrior of noble stature, clad in blue. “I know you, Sir Edwin, how you are peaceful and pitiless in equal measure. It is not bloodshed that I seek."
"Nor I," answered Sir Edwin, whose hands trembled as they gripped his horse's reins.
"But how can I believe that?" the commander remarked. "I do not see the value in shedding blood to fight for so old and worthless a fort, but if compelled, know this: My army will fight to the last."
"As will mine," Edwin replied, though it was a sour thought in his mind as he spoke it.
The commander nodded gravely. "Thus, here is my proposal: I shall surrender this place without a single arrow loosed or a single sword unsheathed, all I ask is that you dismount, kneel before me, and kiss the signet ring upon my hand. If you fight, we will fight. If you surrender... we will go. What kind of man are you really, Sir Edwin. Are you the butcher who slew the black knight, or are you the modest warrior who shamed him a year before?”
After he thus spoke, the commander dismounted and removed his helmet. He even bowed his head toward Sir Edwin, exposing the neck for a traitor’s cut, should his unpredictable opponent desire it.
Edwin dismounted and stepped toward the man, thinking deeply. Which one was he? Butcher or nobleman? In truth he was neither, but cowards do not earn favor with Kings, nor do they command great companies of Knights.
Finally, Sir Edwin came to a decision. He stooped and knelt, burying his knee in the dirt and took the hand of the noble enemy lord. A kiss to his ring was followed by a murmur from the knights who rode from King Seymore's castle, but the forces who came to defend the keep did not stir. Instead, their commander stepped back, bowed a bit to the knight, and returned. Soon, the banner of the enemy was lowered, and the army retreated from their positions. By sunset, the banner of Seymore flew high over the battlements. Victory was won, and no hurt came to any soldier on the field, except against their warrior's pride.
Edwin's own men spat at his name. They saw his act, not as a gesture of mercy, but cowardice. They called him craven and soft, and murmured that he’d betrayed them by denying them the glory of fighting and dying for a cause.
A week later, with much fanfare, King Seymore arrived with a great royal escort. A dinner was held in the keep's great hall, and all the host of Sir Edwin watched eagerly, expecting to hear their King shame his cowardly knight. Instead, the King raised his cup and spoke:
“A sword can win a war, but only a heart may keep the peace. There is no greater courage than truth, no greater strength than restraint, and no greater leader than he who bears shame so his men may live.”
So ends the tale of Sir Edwin and his three trials, first of feigned cunning, then of needless fury, and lastly of true meekness.