Berimund crinkled his nose as a drop of sweat slid down its end. He wearily wiped it away and glanced at the sun. He'd stood here many times during his years in the king's service, and hated it every time. The other soldiers teased him when he drew the duty, taunting the man who still had to stand guard at the stocks.
Berimund sighed inwardly. His service had been faithful, steady, trustworthy. The king himself lauded him for these qualities. But what Berimund didn't possess was ambition. He never volunteered for extra service. He knew he should have to advance, but if he did, he'd be sent away on expeditions. The short patrols he joined were more than enough.
Berimund smiled in spite of the heat. His real trouble was he couldn't go more than a few days without desiring his Miriella and their three children. If he had to give up advancement in the guard, well, so be it. He had more authority anyway. He regularly trained new arrivals in their duties. In fact, he rather thought the king liked him as he was. He had become thoroughly dependable.
The boy in the stocks shifted and groaned. Berimund glanced over at him. He didn't have much more than twelve years to his credit. He'd been attached to the castle less than a month ago, his mother recently widowed and looking to find some means for his provision. His crime? Berimund wasn't sure. The crimes were inconsequential; it was the orders of punishment that fell on his shoulders.
Berimund raised his hand, an indication to those continuing to torment the lad to momentarily stop. He reached down to pick up a bucket he'd filled earlier. He strode to the front of the stocks and leaned down. He drew a cup of water out of the bucket and held it to the boy's lips. There was no reaction.
Berimund dipped a cloth, then wiped at the boy's forehead and cheeks. "Hey. Come on."
The boy blinked, but didn't look up.
"It's almost over. Hang in there. Drink." He lifted the cup again, and the boy raised his head and swallowed eagerly. When he finished, Berimund returned to his post and the miscreants who enjoyed punishing those in the stocks went at it again.
Berimund didn't disagree with justice, but the one who'd commanded the punishment galled him. Young Morris had been unfortunate in garnering the attention of Prince Arthur Pendragon, a boy who exuded a haughty, arrogant, over confident spirit. The king seemed the only one who could truly bring him in line, and he was away again, making a journey to visit an important ally. The prince had been left behind to continue his studies, but Berimund suspected he pursued them little if at all. What he excelled at was getting himself, and others, in trouble, like poor Morris who had probably done nothing more than fail a task put to him.
Laughter sounded down the lane. Berimund narrowed his eyes. Speak of the devil. Prince Arthur, surrounded by boys who fawned over him only for his status, appeared. They paid no attention to the stocks until the regular tormenters paused to bow their heads and let the prince pass. The prince glanced over at the last minute and stopped, roaring with laughter, probably just having remembered he'd sent Morris to the stocks.
Berimund seethed inside as the prince pointed the serving lad out to his friends. Some words passed between them, and Arthur leaned down to snatch up an object. "That'll be a lesson to you, Morris!" he shouted. He threw the object, then moved on with his friends.
Morris sucked in a gasp when the object hit dead on, and Berimund's gaze smoldered at the retreating back of the prince. He had hoped long ago this boy would make a good king. Instead, every need met and every thing desired given had led to pure selfishness.
Berimund picked up the wet cloth again and pressed it to Morris' bleeding temple. The prince had tossed a rock, something even the regulars knew never to do, especially when Berimund was on duty. It hadn't been a very hard hit, but enough. When he'd stemmed the bleeding, Berimund unlocked the stocks. He didn't care if the prince found out he'd cut the punishment short.
Berimund lifted the weakened lad into his arms and proceeded to carry him towards his mother's home. Several passers by peered on the boy with sympathy and others met Berimund's eyes, the truth passing between them, an understanding that no one appreciated the behavior of their prince. For a fleeting moment, Berimund considered talking to King Uther directly, but his duty was to obey commands, not to advise or give counsel. To approach the king would be a broach in etiquette.
Berimund reached Morris' home and called out to the drawn woman hanging up dried herbs outside, some she would use, most she would sell. The dark blonde turned, gasping and rushing to her son. Berimund let her kiss the lad's dirtied cheek, then moved inside, setting the boy down on a cot. His mother went to work, hardly listening to Berimund explain the circumstances and his opinion of them as she stripped the boy of his clothing and washed him down with gentle hands.
Berimund took his leave, his mind whirling with thoughts of a prince he had every desire to pull aside and teach a lesson he'd never forget.
When he arrived back in the courtyard, Berimund saw the king's carriage had returned. He sighed in relief, and his thoughts of speaking to the king about his son returned. Maybe if he was humble enough the king would permit him a moment of candor. The king was rational, wasn't he?
Well, there were some who suggested his wife's death had altered him, especially in regards to his pursuits against magic users, but Berimund had understood that. Magic had done much evil in the kingdom. Better to have it out than have it at all.
Berimund firmed his jaw. He could do it. He could talk to the king. They'd spoken a little over the years, pleasantries here and there. His loyalty spoke for itself, didn't it?
Berimund returned to the armory, replacing the bucket he'd taken to the stocks and removing his armor. Hm. If he was going to approach the king, he couldn't do it in sweat laden clothing. He made his way to the communal bath the soldiers shared. In the middle of the day, no one was present, and he savored the rare moment of peace as he sank into the waters and washed with a cake of soap. How should he begin his conversation? I'd like to discuss your son. Too casual. My lord, I am concerned about the prince's unruly behavior. Too confrontational. Sire, your loss is still keenly felt, I understand, and the prince, I fear needs your guidance all the more. Berimund let out a slow breath. Everything he could think of sounded unacceptable.
Berimund toweled off, dressed in fresh clothing, and began his search for the king. The grand hall and the counsel room were empty. He made his way down several halls and paused when he reached the one containing the king's chambers. It was private but almost unheard of for soldiers like him to enter without a command.
Berimund loitered for a moment, then took a few steps closer to the door. It was cracked open and he heard voices inside. He listened intently.
"Achard reports you've hardly read a book while I've been gone, your copy work is atrocious, and you insist on gallivanting around with less than savory peers."
"Father—"
"Be quiet!" King Uther shouted viciously. "You disappoint me every time I return! Sir Walaric tells me your skill with the blade suffers. You think too much of your pride and greatness and it destroys your concentration. If your mother had lived, what would she have to say?"
"Father." The prince's voice was hushed.
"I don't want to hear it, Arthur! You are heir to this kingdom. You will stop spending yourself on frivolity. The next month, every waking hour will be devoted to your tutors. Camelot depends on me to make you what you should be. Do you understand?"
Berimund heard no response. He imagined the prince nodding.
"Now, get out. You will dine with me tonight and I expect to hear you have done something worthwhile in the meantime."
Berimund retreated rapidly. He watched the prince exit from farther down the hall and his heart sank when the boy wiped a sleeve over his eyes and departed the other way, his shoulders slumped. Berimund didn't move. The prince was pretentious, conceited, prejudiced. All that was true and yet...
Berimund trudged back to the door, now cracked even farther. He was startled to observe the king sitting at his table, head bowed in his hands.
"Ygraine, help me. Come back to us." The king cover his eyes with a hand and wept.
Berimund stepped away. He'd intruded, gone too far. This was not his family nor his concern. He marched back down the hall.
When night had come, Berimund made his way home. He was greeted with a kiss and hugs. He sank down at the table. Miriella and the children chattered and he let their simplicity minister to his soul, until...
"Watkin says he wants to be a soldier like his father." Miriella beamed at their nine year old.
Berimund stared at his energetic oldest, imagining him in the charge of Prince Arthur Pendragon. "What about Marsilion?" he asked, referencing the local carpenter.
"I go there every day!" Watkin exclaimed.
"He's praised your skill."
"Uh huh."
"You could apprentice with him."
Watkin considered, tilting his head. "But you're a soldier."
"That doesn't mean you have to be."
As Watkin seemed to be thinking it through, Berimund shared a smile with Miriella, then looked back to his son. "Watkin?"
His boy looked up at him.
"I'm proud of you."
Watkin blinked, then grinned shyly. He stuffed an apple into his mouth.
Berimund sipped at his soup, content that fate had seen fit to make him a simple soldier with a small home and a wife and children; not a king whose hands were forced to mold an heir to the good or harm of history.