In which a knight errant arrives at village of Frog Meadow and learns a thing or two about his destination.
It was a nice morning. Somewhat cold, but the late spring sun, already high on the sky, flickered in the morning dew warming the bones, bringing hope of a good day to the Elder of Frog Meadow.
On such a nice day a Knight Errant was approaching the village.
First sign was a merry clamor of children who saw him on the road from Mudwater. Then in all his glory, he emerged from over the hill and, all saints, he looked magnificent! An embodiment of hope and justice clad in white. Shield and lance with a ribbon and seal, indicating holy questing vows. Full armor worn on peacetime travel, to show readiness to face danger without delay. Mighty steed in white barding without heraldry proved his dedication to war against evil rather than petty quarrels of feudal lords. Oaken wreath on his forehead signaled willingness to aid anyone in dire peril.
Two horse lengths behind him, rode two squires, also with lances and in full armor. One carried a trumpet to act as a herald and to strike fear into the hearts of villains, announcing the name of one who will pass judgment on them and bringing hope of deliverance to the oppressed. The other led a loose warhorse with a spare lance, saddled and ready, should the knight need to replace his mount. Behind them, wagons with servants, flanked by more than two dozen men-at-arms, mounted and well-armed in case the foe would not comply with the principles of an honorable duel.
If the traditional signs were not enough, his remaining followers provided further proof. For behind the retinue, at some greater distance, traveled a regular, colorful assortment of vagabonds, traders, crooks, and parasites always following knightly enturages.
There was a dwarf merchant, with a couple of servants or cousins, ready to buy on the spot anything of value from the spoils of knightly exploits. Of course, at competitive market prices, provided no one will check these in advance. Then two minstrels following the knight for inspiration. Hopeful to write a song that will grant them everlasting fame. Both equally talented might have already achieved something if focused more on their art than spiteful mockery. An armorer, expelled from the guild for heavy drinking, but otherwise quite skilled and useful. A company of scavengers consisting of a self-professed wizard with an apprentice and knives at the ready, to extract any magical resources from the slain beasts, a butcher hoping to make money on exotic meat, dreaming of dragon tail sausage, and a cobbler already rich after making shoes of slain basilisk but hoping to get even richer. In their steps on a donkey rode a scholar in a square-topped cap, making notes on everything that nobody in the caravan actually cared for. Earning his pay by providing the travelers with somewhat underrated reading and math skills, much to the discontent of the dwarven merchant. Then a shaggy draft hog pulling a cart with two merry goblin twin sisters and a seemingly unending supply of ale. The girls served the caravan with laundry and sewing during the day and with drinks and companionship at night. This companionship was followed by curses of a traveling preacher, much to the amusement of the women and annoyance of everyone else. Then followed a runaway serf, masquerading as a monk. A monk, not masquerading but also not very convincing. A fortune-teller with a cracked crystal ball, really bad luck, but a lot of enthusiasm for his job. Some random pilgrims and travelers that joined the caravan for safety, and finally a shepherd with three sheep that joined them Maker knows why, since he barely spoke but seemed very happy with the company.
Yes. There could be no doubt, it was a Knight Errant approaching. And when he finally approached, he addressed an old goblin sitting on a bench by the falling fence for guidance.
“Greetings, good man. Please don’t stand up. Tell me kindly, is this the road to the Mournful Guard?”
The elder wasn’t thinking of standing up, but anyway he appreciated the concession with a nod and a smile. It meant the knight would not make a fuss about being disrespected, and fuss was the last thing needed in Frog Meadow.
“Mournful Guard you say?” The elder rummaged with effort through his memory. “You mean the old castle by the Damp Causeway on the other side of the lake? This is the way my lord, you should reach it before sunset. Yes, they called it Mournful Guard I guess. But not the right name if you’d ask me, as the company there is quite merry, I would say.”
“Merry company?” the knight seemed confused, but only briefly “Word has spread that the lord of Mournful Guard, a tyrant and robber without virtue, raids nearby lands and keeps a maiden against her will locked in the tower. Is it all a lie then?”
“I wouldn’t say that… – the elder scraped his head, thinking how best to explain the situation of the local social landscape. They do raid, but in the nearby lands rather. The merchants, travelers, tax collectors, his fellow nobles occasionally, not the small folk, not people of the land. Lord of the Damp Causeway’s quite a rascal and his company no better, but he needs his knickers washed and belly fed, so we’re not getting in each other’s business. We stick to our trade; they stick to theirs. They have their swords and spears; we have our scythes and flails. So no, I wouldn’t say they raid the land. And since their business is running rather well lately, I would say the company is quite merry, so Joyful Guard seems a better name than Mournful.”
“Hmm,” the knight seemed lost in his thoughts. At least, certainly losing the subtle mention of class tensions, the elder was trying to make. His stare followed the road ahead.
“And the maiden?” he asked, breaking the silence, not looking at the elder.
“Aye. That may be true.” nodded the elder, squinting and smacking his lips.
“A month or so ago, they passed the village with a carriage, young lass inside. If she was a maiden? I cannot say though, for she cursed like a seasoned harlot rather than a lady, a harlot most imaginative I must say. She hurled threats and insults quite generously at the escort, the lord of Damp Causeway, his mother and father, his men, and on her own father too for some reason. The women in the village remember her well, but not too fondly, as some of the slurs have caught on with the youth. That’s said, she was dressed as a lady, not bad-looking I must say, also the carriage was rich and with some heraldry. People say that from that time sometimes they hear a female voice singing some pretty tune, carried by the waves of the lake in the evening.”
The knight tensed and straightened in his saddle, his thoughts filled with purpose, his heart filling with righteous anger against the evil Lord, ans pity on the lady singing her loleliness to the waves of the lake. Could it be that damsel that cast these insults, passing the village? Surely not! Her servant, maybe. Or maybe the old goblin made it up? Or mixed some facts in his head?
For almost two weeks he followed rumours in inns and markets of a carriage, and a kidnapped maiden. Now he was certain. He tossed a coin to the old goblin, thanking him for his help and spurred his horse. Soon the caravan took on towards the Mournful Guard, the seat of the Lord of Damp Causeway, and towards destiny.
Chronica Goblinorum - or tales from the chronicle of the Goblins. 