Squire

My Lord, my Liege.

I come to thee in humble request, concede me this audience my Lord, for I am the bearer of the most urgent of news. Thank you my King.

There are men at the gates, thy Highness. They are looking for answers, they seek reparation for they claim that the throne has lied and stolen from them.

My Lord, I have been thy faithful for as many long years as bones there are in my body, and wherever thou went I stayed by thy flank. I saw thy Highness in the battlefield and the fury of thy sword; in the plains of Rochelle where thy victory was resounding and resolute.

My Lord, I saw thee claim the lives of villains and scoundrels that plagued the lands and called themselves rebels and I saw thee bring promise of prosperity to the noble houses, and the prospect of a full stomach to the common folk like thy humble servant.

I bear witness to thy conquests, for thy domain has extended beyond the belief of even thy most adamant supporters… and much to the demise of thy enemies. And thy kingdom flourished my Lord, with so many to lay hand and lift towns and markets and turn grass and leaf into roads; with so much coin arriving from the trade and the sea ports thriving in riches. Thy kingdom extends many horizons and spans many lakes. My Liege, thou hast built not a kingdom, but an empire; and this, the Castle of Belcair as the center of it.

But oh my lord! There are men at the gates. And they say they don’t understand this mandate of “One Kingdom under the enforcement of our lord”. They say, my King, that they were born free men, and that their land belonged to the Hawk and the Fox, to the Oak and the cloud. They claim that thy armies came and pillaged and killed and burned… and slaved. They say they are not thy servants, nor any other’s.

These men claim that thou promised them food and water and safe passage, but instead thou took their cabbage and their goat, and gave them hammers and put them to work. They say they can’t grow tomato or carrot anymore because they come too tired from the mines. And they find their women abused and humiliated by the lords of thy noble house.

How many my Lord? Thy highness means to ask this servant how many men are at the gates of thy humble residence today? It’s all of them, my King. All the men and women and children that feel robbed of any part of their lives or their farms or their souls by our great Kingdom of Valearda.

My King, they don’t understand about divine rights, or glory, or kingship. They don’t speak the elaborate language of nobility, but rather the simple slur of peasantry. They only understand fresh air and hot meals and good ale and kind women.

Way out? I don’t think there’s a way out this time my Lord.

Thy highness gives me great honor with thy request that I risk my life to protect thee. Thou art a great man… just not a good King. For my Lord, there are men at the gates, thousands upon thousands of men, and they have come to claim thy head. And it pains me to say so my Lord… I am one of them.