Paladin of Light
~From Page to Squire, the journey doesn't happen over night; not for those who seek to be a Knight~
One day, my mother whisked me away from the cramped and grimy slums of the city into the sprawling countryside. I had never seen such lush, verdant grass or the golden expanses of wheat fields that stretched endlessly before us. The landscape soon transformed into a moor, with hills sculpting the horizon and robust trees dotting the roadside. Meadows teeming with cows and sheep painted a scene so different from the den of debauchery I was accustomed to; it was like stepping into another world.
As we journeyed, the simple beauty of unfamiliar flora and fauna captivated me, filling my young heart with pure joy. Our carriage eventually pulled into a large, circular driveway paved with dark cobblestones. When we alighted, I was confronted by the imposing sight of a massive stone manor. Its windows, arched and barred with black iron, added to its stern demeanor. Fresh ivy, blooming with tiny blue flowers, climbed nearly half the facade, as if claiming the building for nature itself. Above, the sky melted into wondrous shades of pink, yellow, and orange--so vast and clear, it left me stunned.
Despite the beauty surrounding us, a somber mood clung to my mother. She wore a smile, yet her eyes betrayed a sadness I couldn't understand. Even then, I sensed a melancholy in her that deepened my sense of foreboding, though I dared not ask again after she assured me she was fine.
As we approached the manor, a man in a black suit greeted us and ushered us inside. We were seated in an opulent drawing room and served tea while we awaited the master of the house. Settling into an overstuffed chair, I eagerly sampled the fruit-filled tarts on the table. They were delicious, yet even these treats couldn't distract from the tears that suddenly streamed down my mother's cheeks. Confused, I offered her a tart, hoping to lift her spirits.
She dabbed her eyes with a black kerchief edged with red frills, accepting the tart with a forced smile. Noticing her unusually formal attire--a long blue velvet gown and a modest black velvet stole--I realized she had dressed for an occasion of significance.
Our host soon entered, a well-dressed man who introduced himself to me with kindness in his moss-green eyes. "This is Mister Valendale," my mother said softly. He knelt to meet my gaze, addressing me as an equal. He was gentle, asking about my impressions of the estate and earnestly listening to my awed descriptions of its beauty.
Then, the conversation took a turn that would define my future. "Lance," he began, correcting himself with a polite insistence on formality, "you shall call me Sire, or My Lord, or Master, if you prefer." He explained that I was to stay and serve as one of his pages. My excitement waned when I learned that my mother would not be staying. I belonged to Mister Valendale now, and my path was set toward knighthood if I proved diligent--a word whose meaning was yet unfamiliar to me.
As they exchanged a look, my mother's smile wavered, and she moved to my side, fussing over my clothes. She whispered reassurances, draped a golden necklace she wore around my neck, and hugged me tightly. "Behave yourself for Mister Valendale," she instructed, her voice thick with unshed tears. "He is doing a great kindness. Be grateful and obey him."
Our farewells were brief but heart-wrenching. As the carriage that bore her away vanished into the distance, I turned back to face my new life, the weight of the golden necklace--a token of her love--resting heavily on my chest.
Once my mother had left, Mister Valendale showed me around the manor. I had never witnessed such luxury, and the opulence rendered me speechless. As we moved from room to room, he recited a litany of rules and expectations. The manor was vast, with so many doors that I struggled to remember which I could open and which were forbidden.
Mister Valendale detailed his expectations, listing daily chores and duties. Though he spoke at length, much of what he said that day has since faded from my memory, overshadowed by the sheer volume of information. By the end of the tour, I had seen the library, study, great room, dining room, hall of history, kitchen, bedrooms, sewing room, cellar, attic, storage areas, barn, courtyards, ballroom, and more. My feet ached from walking the expansive grounds.
I was told I could wander at leisure for the rest of the day to familiarize myself with the manor and settle into my room. Fueled by youthful enthusiasm, I began my exploration in the kitchens and gradually worked my way outdoors, where I discovered a smithing station near the barn. The neatly displayed tools fascinated me.
Soon, I ventured further, finding a lively lake connected by a creek. Teeming with fish, snakes, frogs, and birds, it beckoned me to explore. Overcome with curiosity, I spent the afternoon wading through the water, catching tadpoles and immersing myself in the vibrant ecosystem. By the time I finished, I was significantly more bedraggled than when I had started my day.
It wasn't until the sun had fully set beyond the horizon that I heard someone calling my name. Caught up in the thrill of the chase, I had lost track of time. I hurried back to the manor, only to be met with reprimands from Owen, a boy a few years my senior who had been serving as Lance's page. That evening, I learned my first stern lesson about the expectations placed upon me: young men were not to roam the swamp and soil their clothes. This was just the first of many stringent lessons my new master would impart.
In the coming days, I was to be taught proper etiquette and dining manners—everything needed to display the decorum that suggests dignity and appropriateness for a young person of good breeding. After all, a gentleman is more than just a man in fine clothes; it's a way of life. It encompasses how you carry yourself and how you treat women and others. You could be the best-dressed man in the room, but without manners, you wouldn't truly be a gentleman. Some might think that politeness is a sign of weakness, but this is not true. I was to learn that the true measure of a man is how much he respects himself, and to respect oneself, one must respect others.
We started with the basics: "please," "thank you," and "excuse me." I wasn't allowed to get away without using these phrases. I soon learned that "Sir" or "Ma'am" should always be used. Being male is simply a matter of birth, being a man a matter of age, but being a gentleman is a matter of choice. I was taught there was always room for courtesy, and even when an offer was refused, I should say, "Please let me know if you change your mind; it's no problem." I cherished the smiles I received when people noticed a child speaking with such manners.
I quickly learned that ladies of all ages appreciated this simple kindness. Ultimately, everything seemed to boil down to respect. Respect, in its fullest sense, is a deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements. This would lead me to learn about what is called chivalry. Chivalry, or the chivalric code, was explained to me as a conduct code associated with the institution of knighthood. I was taught what to do in various situations: when to stand and wait, when to offer kindness, and how to present myself to others. While these manners could impress others, that was not the purpose; I was taught to use them because that is what a gentleman should always do.
Decorum was not the only thing I was taught during this time. Reading, writing, arithmetic, language arts, art, history, and more were all offered to me by a private tutor who also instructed Owen. The sudden workload was overwhelming, but I was met with motivating sentiments from my new master. I quickly learned about the carrot and the stick, though I mostly experienced the stick, pushing me to learn what was expected of me and how to behave. Several months into my early training and chores, I was told that if I kept up the good work, I might be taken into town with the Master of the House, and, provided I behaved accordingly, I would get to see my mother. This news filled me with immense joy, and I remember looking down at my bandaged hands, promising myself I wouldn't make any mistakes. Oh, how naive a child can be...
During a particularly exhausting day filled with running errands, delivering messages, cleaning, and studying, I found myself with a bit of spare time before my next task. I let myself wander the grandiose halls of the manor house. My keen ears quickly picked up what sounded like a frisky cat chasing a rat into a pantry closet. In reality, it was Mister Valendale and Owen in the practice arena, sparring. The scene was awe-inspiring—quick and explosive, yet unfolding before my eyes like a game of chess with its strategic offensive and defensive moves. I stood frozen in the doorway, captivated. Mister Valendale looked at ease despite the close swipes. Each step and movement was so smooth and fluid, I couldn't look away—until I realized I shouldn't be spying on them. Reluctantly, I tore my gaze from the session and continued on my way.
Later that evening, when it was time to serve supper, I inquired about learning the art of swordplay. The response I received from Mister Valendale puzzled me, yet I remember his words precisely:
"Weapons are not toys. They are not meant for play. They are dangerous and can seriously harm someone. That is why they are called weapons. That is why they are used in war."
At the time, his explanation struck me as odd, considering how often I had heard the term 'swordplay.' Over the years, I would come to understand the true difference between playful sparring and serious combat. But at that moment, I couldn't grasp why it was called 'play' at all. Nevertheless, I returned to my routine of remaining nearly silent most of the time, only speaking when spoken to directly.
Within the next week, I was assigned the chore of returning several books to the library to test my developing reading skills. I scoured the massive room, reading each section label and book cover over and over, trying to find their proper places. I suspected this tedious task was designed to keep me busy, as guests had arrived earlier that day. During this task, I happened upon my master's blade. It lay in its blue sheath, precariously perched against one of the bookcases. Presumably, my master had set it down and become distracted or called away. I gazed over its beauty, admiring the fine silver decorations on the sheath. The blade was as big as I was back then, and heavy, but I managed to lift it and slide the long sword from its sheath. The metal was so well-polished I could see my reflection in its mirror-like finish. The edges were razor-sharp; I grazed my palm on the edge when I mistakenly tried to grasp the blade. Blood rushed down my arm, a bright crimson flow. Until then, I had never cut myself. It was strange to see the life-giving fluid flowing so freely, the warmth of it trickling down my arm and staining my white sleeve. Surprisingly, it barely hurt, leaving just a stinging line. The warm trickle was oddly comforting.
"Matthew?" The voice jarred me from my reverie, Master Valendale's call echoing in my ears. As I looked up from the gushing red in my hand, I saw him approaching swiftly. He set the sword aside on the ground, then knelt before me, gripping my shoulders to turn me towards him. Before I could react, he tore the sleeve from my shirt, using the fabric to hastily bandage my hand.
Once my hand was secured, the initial concern on his face gave way to a chilling calm. To a child my age, his expression could only be read as an ominous, calm rage. The warmth in his mossy green eyes had vanished, replaced by a cold, harsh gaze that made my stomach plummet. I attempted to look away, unable to bear the severity of his stare, but he swiftly corrected me with a sharp slap to my cheek. My eyes dropped to the polished wooden floor where the blade lay beside drops of my blood.
"You impudent little fool," Mister Valendale said harshly, picking up the sword. He meticulously wiped my blood from the blade with a kerchief pulled from his coat. After sheathing the sword, he sighed heavily, shaking his head as if disappointed beyond words. He grabbed my forearm, leading me to a desk, and muttered more to himself than to me, "We shall remedy this behavior before it takes root."
What followed was one of the harshest lessons I can ever remember, vividly seared into my young memory. The pain came in overwhelming waves, not just from the physical reprimand but from the biting words that burrowed deep into my soul, leaving me riddled with doubt. Later, I was left alone in my room to 'think on what I had done'. If I had enough time to engage in dangerous escapades, my chores would triple to ensure my idle hands were kept busy.
Kneeling on the floor, I stared at the lone candle in the room, its flame flickering intensely. I replayed every word from the lecture during my punishment, feeling each one burn into my heart. Right then, I made a promise to myself: I would become better than this—better than all of it.
The following morning, Master Valendale was absent from the breakfast table. When I inquired about his absence, I was met with several stares and an unsettling silence.
"He's in his room... had his breakfast brought up... He mentioned he was contemplating something about yesterday's incident... He didn't seem too pleased after returning to our guests," Owen explained in a calm, slow voice, his mahogany eyes casting a scornful look as if he blamed me for the disruption.
Owen and I had never seen eye to eye. He viewed me as a weak little runt, a mere competitor for his position as one of Lance's pages. His stare held contempt, though his words were straightforward, perhaps annoyed that his routine had been altered because of my behavior the previous day. I responded with silence and proceeded with my duties, which now included a daunting list of chores: cleaning large carpets, washing windows, tending to the garden's weeds, scrubbing the terrace, sweeping, mending, ironing, feeding the horses, mucking out stalls, and cleaning all the chimneys. The manor was vast, and Sir Lance kept only a few, well-trusted servants, meaning I would need help with some tasks.
As the days passed, I grew accustomed to the relentless pace of work. Every spare moment seemed to bring a new task—from making fires and washing dishes to delivering messages. I was constantly on the move, becoming a fixture at everyone's beck and call. One morning, to my horror, I overslept. Panicking, I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, where I found Master Valendale standing by the window, looking out at the gardens. He turned to me with a calm, amused smile, which made my stomach churn.
"Awake, are we?" he asked, his voice bemused yet polite.
"You've been working exceptionally hard, my young child," he continued, stepping forward. I braced myself for a rebuke, closing my eyes as he drew near, but instead, his touch was gentle—a soft caress atop my head.
"Your hair is getting long," he commented, his fingers gliding through my locks. "These bangs must be quite a bother when you're working." Indeed, they had grown past my eyes. Slowly, nervously, I looked up.
"My dear child, what's the matter?" he asked as if nothing were amiss. The kindness in his tone conflicted with the guilt and unworthiness swelling inside me. I felt sick, perverse even, as if I didn't deserve his gentle words, especially just for sleeping in. Why hadn't anyone woken me? Did I miss a call?
But he simply held my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "I'm going into town today," Lance stated softly, and for a moment, my heart leaped at the thought of visiting my mother. But his next words crushed that hope. "You will not be accompanying me, however."
His tone was calm, almost emotionless, stripping away any warmth from the moment. I clutched my chest as his words sunk in, breathing heavily from the pain.
"There, there, no need to fuss," he said, placing his hand on my head again. "I'm not entirely heartless. I want you to write a letter to your mother. Tell her what you've been doing, what you've learned, and why you won't see her today."
Tears stung my eyes as I looked up at him, bewildered by this cruel twist. And then, a wave of ingratitude washed over me. I had learned so much here, yet I had never once thanked him. I felt horrible, almost nauseous with guilt. Mister Valendale then instructed me to wash my face, and I obeyed, leaving with a heavy heart.
"Thank you... Master," I said, standing awkwardly in the doorway of Mister Valendale's study, rubbing my itchy eyes. My face bore a sorrowful expression, yet I had managed to quell my tears enough to speak softly. Lance looked up from behind his desk, where he had been reading, and stood upon my arrival just outside his study doors, which had been left open. Normally forbidden from entering, I felt out of place being summoned there after dressing for the day.
"Well, don't just stand there; please, come in and have a seat," Lance said in a gentle tone, setting his book aside. A faint smile graced his sharp features as he motioned me toward a much smaller desk set to the side of his larger one. I complied, albeit awkwardly, and watched as he gathered some parchment, sealing wax, and writing supplies. His demeanor was calm and nonchalant, unusually kind, which struck me as different from how he interacted with others.
Lance laid out the materials on my desk and began to explain how the calligraphy pen worked. He demonstrated each step patiently, capturing my attention and offering mild praise as I mimicked his actions. After mastering the initial handling, he instructed me to write my alphabet slowly and neatly three times, showing me a page that detailed the proper grip and stroke techniques for elegant script.
As we progressed to writing the letter, my initial sadness began to fade, replaced by an interest in mastering the new skill. I felt a pang of guilt about the brevity of the letter, but I frequently expressed my gratitude for Mister Valendale's guidance, appreciating his gentle corrections. After three attempts, I completed a letter in a novice's script.
Lance then taught me how to fold the letter properly, place it in an envelope, and seal it with wax. He mentioned that once my writing improved, I would receive a monogram so my mother would recognize my letters as my own.
Once the letter was secured, Lance departed in his carriage, and that's when Owen's demeanor shifted. "Alright, runt—while the Master is gone, I'm in charge of you. You've had your time to sleep in, and your chores aren't even half finished," he scolded, his sneer betraying his enjoyment of his temporary authority. I understood Owen relished accompanying Lance to town and saw my punishment as partly his burden, given he was left to supervise me.
It was indeed a long day...
By supper time, Mister Valendale had returned. Owen and I went to greet him, and to my surprise, he handed each of us an envelope—mine from my mother, Owen's from his father. Following Owen's lead, I offered my thanks.
Eager to read the contents, I waited impatiently through supper. Once dismissed, I hurried to my room, where I eagerly tore open the envelope and eagerly read my mother's words.
Her letter bore only two words on the page: "Be kind." That was it. I turned the page over and searched the envelope for more, but there was nothing else. I sat stunned for several minutes, my blood pulsing with the anticipation that had now given way to a wave of dumbfounded disbelief. I had poured my heart and soul into the letter I wrote, and all she sent back were two words? I didn't know how to feel.
The months that followed blurred into a monotony that left me feeling numb. This inner emptiness seemed to reflect outwardly, as I was often asked if something was the matter. My childhood curiosity drained away, leaving me a mere husk of a child. I complied with commands mechanically, showing little emotion, responding only when absolutely necessary, and then with no more than three words. Left to my own thoughts, the days slipped by unremarkably—nothing more, nothing special.
One day, I was summoned by Mister Valendale to the room where I had once seen him and Owen spar. To my surprise, Owen was there too, smiling at me. "There you are. Now, I need you to pay very close attention," Lance instructed as he beckoned me into the ballroom to stand where Owen was positioned. He handed me a long sword, though it was made of wood.
He positioned me before Owen, adjusting my hands and explaining slowly the basics of stance and grip, which foot to place forward, and how to hold the hilt. This new challenge sparked something within me that had lain dormant—the basics captivated my young mind, rekindling a sliver of interest beyond the day-to-day chores. The subsequent months were filled with daily segments dedicated to mastering the fundamentals of sword fighting. I practiced the drills meticulously, honing my fledgling skills.
Eventually, I was asked to spar with Owen. I quickly learned that executing drills and thinking on your feet were vastly different skills. Despite my initial struggles and the many times I found myself on the floor, Owen extended his hand to help me up—every single time. Strangely, during these sessions, Owen always seemed a bit happier.
As the days passed, I grew more accustomed to Mister Valendale's presence and realized he took a keen interest in nearly everything I did. It became apparent that nothing I did within the manor escaped the Master's notice. Meanwhile, the memories of my mother faded into just that—memories. I often wondered if she still cared about me, or if she was even real. Sometimes I doubted if the early years of my life were just a dream, but the letter wedged in my mirror each morning reminded me that she was real—that all of this was real.
It wasn't long before Owen took me into the forest. The Master had business to attend to and preferred us out of the manor for the day. Owen and I had been practicing archery in recent weeks, and this was our chance to test our skills by hunting rabbits. I proved to be a poor shot, failing to catch a single rabbit, while Owen, chuckling at my attempts, suggested I might have better luck chasing them down. He managed to catch three by himself.
We returned to a glen and set up a small fire on the cold stones by the river. There, Owen taught me how to skin and prepare the rabbits for cooking. After we finished our meal, Owen leaned back against the cold stones, watching the Light settle beyond the horizon. The sky was stained with glorious colors—pinks, oranges, purples, and blues—each cloud illuminated spectacularly.
"The Sunstar must be an artist, with how breathtaking each sunset and sunrise is... like a gift before the day and a promise of the next dawn," I remarked, mesmerized by the shifting colors.
Owen shook his head with a smile. "Kid, you think too much," he said, his gaze fixed on the sky. "It's a big world out there... and there's an endless road to discover it. One day I'm gonna travel it."
"Just looking at the endless reach of sky makes me feel so grounded, so humbled... so small... Aren't you scared? I don't think I've ever been this far from home before," I admitted.
"That's the beauty of it," Owen laughed. "Venturing into the great wide unknown, going where you haven't gone before. Think of the tales the bards in town sing of. How do you think they came to be? Surely, you won't learn much if you stay cooped up here all your life."
"But aren't you scared?" I persisted.
Owen's smile broadened. "Well, sure, I'm scared. I think everyone is scared of the unknown. We only really know how to make choices based on what we know. When faced with something new, it's scary, awe-inspiring. But once you find out and learn how to handle these new things, new places, new experiences... then it's not so scary. I bet you were pretty scared your first night in the Manor house, huh?"
I nodded, smiling as I recalled my initial fear. "Yeah, I was."
As we watched the heated embers of our campfire, Owen stood, pulling out a strange silver item and unscrewing it to take a drink. "Hey brother, we need to believe in each other, eh? Even if you're far from home, I'll hear you call. No worries."
At the time, his words confused me, but as the years passed, I came to understand what he meant. That night, I felt that Owen and I truly connected for the first time. Just us, no rules, no regulations, no chores. It was the first time we treated each other like brothers. We talked for hours, and when I questioned why he called me that, knowing we weren't really brothers, he laughed and said, "We're all blood brothers, Matthew."
It was a night I would cherish always.
As the months slipped by, Owen and I grew closer. Our lessons intensified, and we began spending more time together. Although we had our spats occasionally, we learned to get along quite well. Gradually, we opened up about our families and backgrounds.
Owen's father was a blacksmith in town. Some years before my arrival, after Owen's mother had mysteriously disappeared, leaving Owen with only his father, Mister Crawford, Owen was sent to Lance. Mister Crawford, always buried in his work at the forge, believed a blacksmith's shop no place for a young child. Having been a client of Mister Crawford's fine craftsmanship, Lance agreed somewhat readily to take Owen on as his page, envisioning him as a suitable apprentice. Like me, Owen was only allowed to visit his father if he met all of Lance's conditions and demonstrated satisfactory behavior beforehand.
Owen cherished the visits to his father, sometimes extended if Lance permitted, where he learned bits about the blacksmithing trade. These experiences nurtured Owen's creative side, which I came to admire. When not engrossed in reading or sketching, Owen was often found tinkering with various contraptions. His inventions aimed to simplify tasks or were just bold experiments to test his engineering whims. As Owen's interest in alchemy grew, so did the complexity of his designs, though I often found them too imaginative to fully grasp.
Sometimes, I would assist him in building these devices. Inspired by several books from the manor's library that detailed the construction of snares and traps, we practiced making them in the barnyard. Eventually, we ventured into the moors and deeper into the woods, aiming to catch bigger game than just rabbits. Our early attempts at trapping larger prey were unsuccessful, and we often returned empty-handed. Yet, those days spent together, collaborating and learning from each other, rank among the best days of my life.