The White Feather
The barest sliver of moon shone down upon the boy as he scaled the pitted stone face of the Keep, the white feather secured in his cap. The blood coursed through his veins, the adrenaline rush almost overwhelming the intense concentration that the ascent required. No rope supported him, no net would save him should he slip.
Many had gone before and, no doubt, many more would follow, each carrying the symbolic feather in honour of the first of them, one Guy du Bec, who had gained entry against all odds and secured the release of dozens of men, women and children who had been either enslaved or imprisoned for innumerable years.
Du Bec, the original ‘White Feather’, did not return - had no doubt sacrificed his own life whilst gaining the freedom of those pitiful, malnourished folk. Indeed, none of those who actually made it to the top of the wall, a feat in itself, ever returned. And yet, every so often, a trickle of thankful peasants would issue forth, full of praise for the brave saviours who had either fought or petitioned on their humble behalf.
The boy, Gerald by name, son of the farrier, paused momentarily to steady his nerves before reaching up once again for the next available purchase which would bring him closer to the summit of the immense and ancient structure. His hands were numb through the cold and the damp, but this was no bad thing as his fingers and palms were now badly torn and bloodied.
Thoughts of his poverty stricken family constantly played on his mind. He could imagine them now, huddled together for warmth in the corner of the small barn that they shared with the animals and yet still called a home. He fought to keep these thoughts at bay, but knew in his heart such images served as a spur.
Again he pushed upwards, but this time he failed to secure a handhold. He searched around desperately before the realisation dawned upon him that he was at the top.
He eased himself over the parapet and then huddled below it, his gasping breaths becoming almost crystalline in the air before him. What to do next had not, could not, have been planned for. All his effort had gone into the ascent and this was now uncharted territory. No maps or knowledge of its geography existed in the town which was now so far below him.
He did not dare to cross to the opposite side of this lofty perch, to peer down within the Keep itself. Somehow he did not feel ready for this and convinced himself that it was unnecessary to his cause. Instead he scanned the battlement both left and right, seeing that seemingly identical doorways existed within the turrets to either side. He decided quickly before scurrying to his left and then down the narrow twisting steps that plummeted down through the ill lit innards of the tower, disgorging him eventually at a much lower level.
As he came to a halt once more his ears caught the faintest noise from above him, growing steadily louder. Footsteps, of a quickening pace, accompanied by the unmistakable jangle of chainmail. He rushed ahead into an arched passageway, grateful that the meagre wrappings that served him as shoes made the barest sound upon the cobbled floor.
Soon he reached an intersection where he could either turn or continue ahead. Thinking that ahead of him could only be the opposite tower he took the turning but was immediately brought up short by the sound of footfalls, surely coming towards him. He turned back but they now seemed to be approaching him from all directions.
He had hoped to have made it farther than this.
The Lord Montague lay reclined upon his couch in the Keep’s Great Hall which was lit by torches ensconced around its perimeter as well as the fiercely roaring fire over which the carcass of a swine was slowly being turned. Numerous guards were stationed at their posts and servants scurried in and out, each obviously keen to be present for the shortest time possible. Before the Lord of the Keep was a low table arrayed with fruits and sweetmeats and various goblets of water and wine. The eyes of the boy, Gerald, were drawn to these, yet it was the heady smell of the cooking pork which provided the greatest temptation. For all these distractions however, he could not help but ogle at the obese velvet clad figure stretched out at leisure on the couch before him.
“So young, so young!” the Lord shook his jowls from side to side in mock despair. “How old are you boy?”
The boy stammered out his response, “I d..do not know s..sir, sixteen, …perhaps seventeen.” His voice seemed small and lost in this vast chamber.
Montague smirked at him over the shining rim of the silver goblet as he raised it to his lips, “and you are here for what reason, may I ask?”
The boy looked down at his feet, before appearing to assert himself. “I am here for my people, like Guy du Bec, who came before me.”
“Ahhh,” Montague sneered, “your revered White Feather!” He looked around at the guards and servants who served as his audience, “this is the part I enjoy most, well, almost most.”
His beady eyes locked onto those of the boy, “There,” he gestured to the vacant couch alongside his own, “that is where your White Feather lay and what you see before you is what he feasted on, what he shared with me. He bought his own freedom you know, not that of the few useless peasants that were cast out!”
The boy could only stare quizzically, uncomprehending.
“He was an astute man you see,” Montague continued, “he was able to recognise my single largest problem….boredom. And, knowing how beloved he was amongst those stinking hovels of yours, he guaranteed to me a continuing string of adventurous young boys, as entertainment …..you understand? After several days I allowed him to ride west on the single condition that he would never return.”
The boy backed away, but firm hands latched onto him.
“Two floors below this one is a chamber of delights that will simply make you scream,” Montague laughed, “I will join you there soon. And afterwards you will watch the dawn.”
The first rays of the morning sun shone upon the bruised cheeks of the boy, Gerald. His eyes did not see the dawning as the carrion crows had plucked them from their sockets. The wind blew gently and the battered body swung to and fro on the rope from which it was suspended.
A single white feather fluttered slowly to the ground far below.
Many had gone before and, no doubt, many more would follow, each carrying the symbolic feather in honour of the first of them, one Guy du Bec, who had gained entry against all odds and secured the release of dozens of men, women and children who had been either enslaved or imprisoned for innumerable years.
Du Bec, the original ‘White Feather’, did not return - had no doubt sacrificed his own life whilst gaining the freedom of those pitiful, malnourished folk. Indeed, none of those who actually made it to the top of the wall, a feat in itself, ever returned. And yet, every so often, a trickle of thankful peasants would issue forth, full of praise for the brave saviours who had either fought or petitioned on their humble behalf.
The boy, Gerald by name, son of the farrier, paused momentarily to steady his nerves before reaching up once again for the next available purchase which would bring him closer to the summit of the immense and ancient structure. His hands were numb through the cold and the damp, but this was no bad thing as his fingers and palms were now badly torn and bloodied.
Thoughts of his poverty stricken family constantly played on his mind. He could imagine them now, huddled together for warmth in the corner of the small barn that they shared with the animals and yet still called a home. He fought to keep these thoughts at bay, but knew in his heart such images served as a spur.
Again he pushed upwards, but this time he failed to secure a handhold. He searched around desperately before the realisation dawned upon him that he was at the top.
He eased himself over the parapet and then huddled below it, his gasping breaths becoming almost crystalline in the air before him. What to do next had not, could not, have been planned for. All his effort had gone into the ascent and this was now uncharted territory. No maps or knowledge of its geography existed in the town which was now so far below him.
He did not dare to cross to the opposite side of this lofty perch, to peer down within the Keep itself. Somehow he did not feel ready for this and convinced himself that it was unnecessary to his cause. Instead he scanned the battlement both left and right, seeing that seemingly identical doorways existed within the turrets to either side. He decided quickly before scurrying to his left and then down the narrow twisting steps that plummeted down through the ill lit innards of the tower, disgorging him eventually at a much lower level.
As he came to a halt once more his ears caught the faintest noise from above him, growing steadily louder. Footsteps, of a quickening pace, accompanied by the unmistakable jangle of chainmail. He rushed ahead into an arched passageway, grateful that the meagre wrappings that served him as shoes made the barest sound upon the cobbled floor.
Soon he reached an intersection where he could either turn or continue ahead. Thinking that ahead of him could only be the opposite tower he took the turning but was immediately brought up short by the sound of footfalls, surely coming towards him. He turned back but they now seemed to be approaching him from all directions.
He had hoped to have made it farther than this.
The Lord Montague lay reclined upon his couch in the Keep’s Great Hall which was lit by torches ensconced around its perimeter as well as the fiercely roaring fire over which the carcass of a swine was slowly being turned. Numerous guards were stationed at their posts and servants scurried in and out, each obviously keen to be present for the shortest time possible. Before the Lord of the Keep was a low table arrayed with fruits and sweetmeats and various goblets of water and wine. The eyes of the boy, Gerald, were drawn to these, yet it was the heady smell of the cooking pork which provided the greatest temptation. For all these distractions however, he could not help but ogle at the obese velvet clad figure stretched out at leisure on the couch before him.
“So young, so young!” the Lord shook his jowls from side to side in mock despair. “How old are you boy?”
The boy stammered out his response, “I d..do not know s..sir, sixteen, …perhaps seventeen.” His voice seemed small and lost in this vast chamber.
Montague smirked at him over the shining rim of the silver goblet as he raised it to his lips, “and you are here for what reason, may I ask?”
The boy looked down at his feet, before appearing to assert himself. “I am here for my people, like Guy du Bec, who came before me.”
“Ahhh,” Montague sneered, “your revered White Feather!” He looked around at the guards and servants who served as his audience, “this is the part I enjoy most, well, almost most.”
His beady eyes locked onto those of the boy, “There,” he gestured to the vacant couch alongside his own, “that is where your White Feather lay and what you see before you is what he feasted on, what he shared with me. He bought his own freedom you know, not that of the few useless peasants that were cast out!”
The boy could only stare quizzically, uncomprehending.
“He was an astute man you see,” Montague continued, “he was able to recognise my single largest problem….boredom. And, knowing how beloved he was amongst those stinking hovels of yours, he guaranteed to me a continuing string of adventurous young boys, as entertainment …..you understand? After several days I allowed him to ride west on the single condition that he would never return.”
The boy backed away, but firm hands latched onto him.
“Two floors below this one is a chamber of delights that will simply make you scream,” Montague laughed, “I will join you there soon. And afterwards you will watch the dawn.”
The first rays of the morning sun shone upon the bruised cheeks of the boy, Gerald. His eyes did not see the dawning as the carrion crows had plucked them from their sockets. The wind blew gently and the battered body swung to and fro on the rope from which it was suspended.
A single white feather fluttered slowly to the ground far below.