The Silver Knight
This story can be read as a standalone, although if you wish a little context you might want to check out The Gold Sovereign and The Painted Ceiling Pt 1.
Dear Casildea,
Every essay of a historical nature should at some point or the other quote its sources. The main sources of this essay here, writ in Orlesian for your better comprehension, to which I have appended the above title are The Legend of Calenhad, by Brother Herren, a Chantry scribe, and my own personal experience.
A brief comment on these sources is in order. My direct ancestor, Calenhad, was born in 5:20, Exalted, the third son of a Highever merchant. Good Brother Herren did not quill his epic but also weighty and tedious tome until 8:10 Blessed. That is a temporal gap of some three hundred years.
Now let me put this in context for you, Casildea, do you remember what you had for supper yesterday? You probably do, but what about the day before that? Well, perhaps it was fish of some kind or other, but what about Tuesday three weeks ago? Unless you made a note of it or it was your nameday or some other special occasion, or you are one of those unhappily boring people who eat the same meal every week on the same day, and I really do not think you are (unhappy or boring, I mean), the answer has to be almost certainly not (speaking for myself, I think it may have been potted hare, but I can't swear to it).
So how could Brother Herren know, three hundred years after the events in question know what Calenhad did, said, thought, or failed to do? The short answer is that he could not.
You could object to this that Brother Herren based his biography on previous sources closer in time to Calenhad. But just how reliable is information passed from scholar to scholar or, more likely, eager tongue-wagger to eager tongue-wagger, over the course of three centuries? The reply has to be: not very. Why, even events happening in a person's own lifetime can be distorted or fabricated on the basis of ill-founded rumours. For example, that piece of gossip presently going round the taverns about me and a certain very attractive (it must be said) reverend mother? It is not true. Definitely not true. Fantasy is one thing, but even I, the current King of Ferelden, know Grand Cleric Elemena would have my nuts were I so much as to put a finger on one of her precious reverend mothers...
Speaking further of myself, as you are no doubt aware, I am even more fallible than the blessed brother. And although I started studying history at the same time I was training as a Templar. I am no Templar and certainly no historian. My historical studies and Templar training were interrupted by a pesky incident that has since become known as the fifth Blight. But I am (or was, at least) a bit of a fighter and my ancestor Calenhad was a bit of a fighter, too, albeit a much better one. So from time to time I will presume below to draw from that common shared experience.
To begin from the beginning, then, Calenhad was born in 5:20, Exalted, the third son of a Highever merchant that had fallen on hard times. In order to bring this a bit closer to you, Casildea: at around the same time that Calenhad was busy trying to emerge from his mother's womb in Ferelden, an Elven hero and Gray Warden by the name Galandrial terminated the fourth Blight at the expense of his own life, in a certain place called Antiva.
Brother Herren tells us that when he came of age, Calenhad, was sent to a distant cousin. He was a poor young knight named Ser Forannan, who made him his squire and dog-handler. Casildea, you will no doubt note that, being that this is a Fereldan tale, it has taken less than five paragraphs for me to mention Mabari. At this point, I feel obligated to make clear (although it is irrelevant to what follows) that, as a Fereldan, I like dogs. Having said that, although I appreciate Mince and Meat for what they are—princes among Mabari—I should say that I much prefer the company of women... particularly you.
Anyway, Forannan in turn was beholden to a certain minor noble, called Tenedor. Since Tenedor is a miniscule figure in this tale and because the name suits him much better and has less syllables, I shall henceforth refer to him as "Tosser". Well then. Tosser, in turn, was engaged in a fight with Arl Myrddin. From this point onward, I will use be using the Orlesian transcription of this guy's his name: "Merdin". I am sure you get the joke. Merdin was also known as "The Bear". He was a strong but generally disliked man, who had put his bid in for Kingship. He had slightly stooped shoulders and dark, shaggy hair. It eventually came to pass that Merdin's forces besieged young Tosser at his castle, in the part of Ferelden today known as West Hill.
When Merdin called Tosser out to parley, the young Arl asked for a volunteer from among the squires who could masquerade as him in the during parley party. My ancestor Calenhad knelt before Tosser and begged to be given that honour. At this point, I am at a loss to say whether my ancestor was particularly dense or particularly devious... Perhaps it was a bit of both. But in any event, I can imagine that Tosser was inordinately pleased to have found an idiot of such calibre among the squires who was prepared to volunteer himself for such a foolhardy mission.
What happened next is the stuff of legend—or perhaps of overheated exaggeration. Much to Tosser's and Ser Fornnan's dismay, Calenhad identified himself to The Bear when Arl Merdin first addressed him as Arl Tosser. When asked by Merdin why he was there, Calenhad explained that he had been asked to take the place of his lord for the parley.
Arl Merdin then said that he had planned to kill Tosser, and drew a knife which he had concealed in his belt. He poked the tip of the blade in the centre of Calenhad's chest, pressing lightly but insistently. Since this was reputedly a parlay, my ancestor was not wearing any armour whatsoever. Was Calenhad willing to die in his lord's place, as well? Merdin had asked.
Calenhad hesitated, but eventually, looking The Bear straight in the eyes, replied that although it would no doubt cause him considerable personal inconvenience, he was. This reply and its obvious sincerity made a deep impression on Merdin and his allies.
Merdin then offered Calenhad a place as his own squire, but my ancestor refused. Calenhad stated that if Merdin had planned on betraying the right of parley, he was no man of honour and he, Calenhad, would not give his loyalty to anyone less than that.
While I acknowledge once again my ancestor's lack of common sense, I do think I see Calenhad's point here. Why give up serving Tosser, who was a fool, for Merdin, who was treacherous and nasty? Frankly, I always thought one was better off with a fool, if things go bad. At least you could see the fool coming for you.
Merdin's allies laughed at my ancestor's impertinence, and The Bear himself joined them, conceding that Calenhad had a point. He therefore allowed my ancestor and the rest of his party to return to the castle safely... and then, true to his character, immediately gave orders to launch the final assault.
Tosser not only lacked the experience to withstand an assault from a seasoned hand such as Merdin, he also lacked the resources. The neighbouring Bannorns had all already either fallen or surrendered to The Bear's forces. So it was that Merdin's armies surged around Tosser's hold like a dark raging sea around a fragile jetty that has seen better days.
Tosser, although a fool, was brave. He died at the head of his troops trying to repel the vanguard of Merdin's assault. Forannen, who had been commissioned towards the rear, was soon taken captive by The Bear's second. Merdin's officer was a man so thin and skeletal, his nickname was Ghost.
Calenhad, perhaps in a belated recognition of his charisma, had been charged with keeping up the troops' morale on the battlements. When the walls were breached, he bided his time and continued to encourage those under his temporary command to attack the invaders from above. But when things began to look really desperate, my ancestor started to descend from the parapets, eventually reaching a spot from where he could drop down just behind Merdin.
"Ohhh," said Merdin turning, "if it isn't the cheeky little squire..." Shouting to his troops to stand back and given them space, he immediately lumbered towards Calenhad wielding the large black iron axe that was his stock in trade on the battlefield.
Although my ancestor was quick on his feet, probably faster than I, Merdin too was surprisingly fast for one so bulky. Calenhad had his work cut out for him, as he avoided the large man's lethal, sweeping axe blows. My ancestor was the lighter contender of the two combatants. He adopted the usual tactic of skip, dodge and duck, in order to grind the older warrior down while he looked for an opening in The Bear's defence. Merdin was about twice Calenhad's age, and since he had been attacking rather than defending, he was considerably more fatigued.
Eventually, Calenhad was able to create a breach. He feinted by getting nearer to The Bear than he usually would. When Merdin delivered the expected devastating axe blow, Calenhad ducked under it, hearing the black iron cleaver whistle just above his cheap iron helm. He was aware that had it so much as skimmed him, he would be rendering his account to the Maker in the afterlife. Having gotten under Merdin's guard, and remaining crouched down, my ancestor ran at him with his head between his shoulders, knocking into him with such force that The Bear fell to the ground with a growl.
Calenhad stood up, squared squaring his shoulders and pretending to ignore the hush that had suddenly broken out around him. He levelled his second-rate sword at Merdin's throat. Seeing the turn that the duel between my ancestor and his master had taken, Ghost immediately stabbed Forannen, perhaps hoping that his death throes would fluster Calenhad to such an extent that Merdin would be able to come back at him recover his equilibrium.
Calenhad did vacillate, and the hand that held his sword trembled a little, but he kept his gaze on Merdin. His blade did not waver from the older warrior's gullet. Lying on the ground, The Bear removed his tusked helm and looked up at Calenhad:
"What is your family name, young squire?" he asked.
"Theirin, I am called Calenhad Theirin."
"Never heard of any Theirins..." rumbled Merdin.
"My family are merchants. We hail from Highever."
"So, Calenhad Theirin, what now? You are a vassal without a lord, and a squire without a knight. Perhaps you should reconsider my offer? Should you slay me, we will as a matter of course, both die here today."
"You are not a man known for your honour," my ancestor replied, according to good Brother Herren, "but I believe you wish to be. You could prove this to me and all those here, by allowing Tenedor's remaining surviving people to live. You allowed me to live once, and so now I do the same for you. Perhaps if more of us abided by a code of honour, we would learn to trust each other long enough to live together." And with that, Calenhad withdrew his sword, no doubt dreading what could happen next.
Merdin put out his hand and Calenhad grasped it, helping pull him to his feet. "I am humbled by your words, and very impressed by your demeanour...even though you are some merchant's upstart whelp," Merdin told my ancestor, once he was standing.
He then clapped him heartily on the back and Calenhad, fearing he was being attacked again, made to go for his steel. Merdin only chortled, a deep rumble from inside his chest and commented, "A bit jumpy...aren't we, lad?"
To my ancestor's surprise, he then grabbed Calenhad's hand in his massive paw and, almost crushing it, held it aloft and yelled, "I might be too much of an oaf and a beast to be King of this wretched, soggy country that we all love, but today, I know who should be!"
Brother Herren does not say so, but I am certain that at some point Calenhad turned to the bear and muttered to him under his breath, "Arl Merdin, is this some kind of bizarre joke?"
"No, lad...no," replied the Arl, "I'm just fed up of toiling everyday on battlefields. I miss my nice warm home, and my nice warm wife. I was looking for someone to do the hard work for me. Think I found him." he mumbled back, and then, on the top of his lungs, "For Ferelden!"
With that, Merdin pledged allegiance to Calenhad, whom he named Teyrn and ruler of Tenedor's lands.
As he responded to the cheers that suddenly roared around him, I have little doubt, Casildea, that my ancestor began to wonder what the hell he was letting himself in for.
With his allegiance to Arl Merdin, Calenhad began his rise to greatness.
Some of Merdin's allies also pledged allegiance to my ancestor, but most thought him foolhardy. A boy commoner, former squire and dog handler was to lead them and become king? Over the months that followed, however, Calenhad proved himself worthy of Merdin's trust. With each victory, he won over more men to his command and his reputation as a man of honour, if a bit of a goody two-shoes, spread.
It was while Calenhad was undertaking a spring campaign in the Lowland Bannorns that he met Lady Shayna.
A word here on the Bannorn. The Bannorn has made Ferelden what it is, for good or for bad. The central Ferelden Valley has always been a paradox: No single bann holds more than a few dozen leagues of farmland, yet together they govern a greater territory than all the teryns and arls combined, and more fertile. This collection of independent banns is known as the Bannorn, and it is the heart of Fereldan politics and is what has given rise to Ferelden's own unique political system: the elective monarchy.
The Bannorn also has a reputation for something else: extreme petulance.
To give you some idea, Queen Fionne of Ferelden—not one of my ancestors, but I bear her no ill will for all that—who had the misfortune to take the throne in the eighteenth year of the Steel Age, wrote of the Bannorn:
"There have been three wars this year fought over elopements. Five fought over wool. And one was started by an apple tree. It isn't even winter yet. Who would believe that these same banns, now trying so hard to kill one another, just last year united to give me the crown?"
It seems that Lady Shayna was a second child. Now, while first children strive to keep the world as it is to please their parents, second children always want to shake it up if only to annoy their elder siblings (in case it is of any interest to you, I'm a second child, and second bastard children are, reputedly, even more fractious...), and do not care about their parents one jot. Third-borns, such as Calenhad, can go either way...
Even worse, it would appear that Lady Shayna's beloved and conscientious elder brother had perished in one of Calenhad's earlier battles. One thing a second sibling will almost never, ever, forgive or forget is the removal of the first, because that removal deprives them at a stroke of the whole point of their existence. So, to say that she did not bear Calenhad any affection would be like saying that the inside of a volcano is somewhat tepid. To say that 'she would have liked to have seen my ancestor's head on a pike and his balls on a plate' would have been a better approximation of her feelings towards the man.
Although I do not know for certain which Bannorn Lady Shayna was from, as several lay claim to her, I do have my suspicions that I will refrain from divulging here. I am quite fearful of giving any sort of open judgment on the matter, because, who knows? Civil war could break out among the Bannorns once again...
A number of formidable aristocratic ladies of my acquaintance—whom I would never dream to cross—claim to be her direct descendants, and not all of them can be. At the very least, I may become the object of some extremely icy glares on the next feast day here at the palace, and I do so hate those. But we can be sure that it was one of the smaller ones because, even at this very early stage of Calenhad's campaign, it was overrun in a very short space of time. Rather, it was a rout.
Apparently, the final battle took place in an early spring torrential downpour of freezing rain, which meant that both sides were struggling against each other in what, after half an hour, amounted to little more than a bog.
At its end, however, Lady Shayna lay on her back on the mud-spattered field and Calenhad held his sword, Nemetos, a gift from The Bear, to her delicate throat. "Yield, my lady," he said, sounding somewhat less fierce than Lawler on a bad day (I get the distinct impression that my ancestor was not particularly good at this kind of thing, especially where attractive ladies were involved).
Our worthy historian, Brother Herren, says that at this point that Lady Shayna's response was "such that I could not reproduce it here for fear of committing a most fearsome blasphemy." I imagine she told Calenhad to go somewhere not very pleasant, and perform an obscene act on himself.
Calenhad's response has been recorded for posterity, however. He removed his helm so she could look him full in his rather handsome face and said, "You must be tired, milady. Come, allow me to help you to your feet. You fought well and bravely," and extended his hand to her to help her up. Although this was extraordinarily gallant, it may also have been a mistake. As soon as she gained her feet, Lady Shayna, blue eyes flashing and tugging upon the very hand that had assisted her to rise from the mud, pulled my ancestor forward. Using her free arm, she swung and hit him very hard on the side of the head with her red steel vambrace. Calenhad dropped Nemetos and fell stunned into the mire, his right ear bleeding
This time, however, Lady Shayna's words, or at least some of them, have been recorded for history. After using further choice epithets to describe Calenhad's sexual proclivities in respect of his earlier profession and ancestry, she then screamed "...You stinking, upstart, hypocrite! First I will take your virtue, and then I will take your life!" and jumped on him, landing on his chest. She began buffeting his face with her fists.
Poor Calenhad came to fairly soon after, and said something like, "Ow! That hurt!" Apparently, she showed him no mercy. He eventually managed to get one of his hands around Lady Shayna's throat, and used that to lever her off his chest where she landed with a splash in a muddy puddle. After recovering his breath, my ancestor clambered on top of her, sludge now dripping down his long fair hair, while she was still squirming in the filth.
What, you may ask yourself, Casildea, were the two armies doing while this was happening? That is, I meant the remnants of Lady Shayna's contingent and Calenhad's well-disciplined and seasoned troops. My view is that they may have simply been too frightened or tired to intervene in this epic battle between their leaders. Perhaps they had made a conscious decision to allow the two champions to slog it out for their own edification and instruction. It is also quite possible that they were all dying of laughter.
So my ancestor had then sat on top of Lady Shayna, and had managed to pinion her wrists to the side of her head. She spat in his face, "Ah, low-born villain, this is what you wanted all along!"
His reply was, "By the Maker, if I didn't want it before, I certainly want it now...!" and then, realising that his words could be misinterpreted—especially by any stray Chantry historians who happened to be hanging around at that very moment with their quills poised over parchment—added, "I mean subdue you and force you to yield..."
At that point it seems he also lost his patience with his indolent soldiery, and in a rare but understandable display of bad humour, since Lady Shayna continued to writhe and curse below him using the choicest terms of abuse in the Fereldan of that era, which may well have included certain references to strange shaped vegetables, Calenhad called out, "You there, Captain..."
"Carp,"
"Captain Crap...Carp...whatever. Stop pissing your pants. Get some of your men and secure this wretched woman. Shut her up, tie her up, clean her up and bring her to my tent after supper, in that order, if you please..."
I surmise it took at least six men to hold the Lady down but eventually Calenhad was able to rise. Having recovered Nemetos from the muck, my ancestor stalked away victorious from yet another battlefield mumbling, "Andraste's tits! I need a bath. Probably a cold one..."
TBC