Welcome traveller, welcome! Let me fill you a tankard with ale.
Take the weight off your feet and grab a seat by the fire, then settle in for a tale from the Ryngwoode…
***
The Ivy Knight.
Or Knight Of Ivy.
Whatever he’s chuffing called. I can never remember. There’s hundreds of these twats going around with stupid names, hoping for their latest heroic adventure to make it into a minstrel’s song.
Okay, I’m being a little unfair here. As far as these pricks go, this one isn’t so bad. Not once you get past the arrogance.
A young knight, tournament champion, and favourite with the ladies, this is the story of Sir Denys, The Knight Of Ivy.
Or is it The Ivy Knight…?
***
Autumn was in full flow, and while the trees on the edge of the Ryngwoode were a mix of browns and reds, The Knight Of Ivy looked flourishing in green. His armour intricately etched with a pattern of green ivy, and one large metal ivy leaf emblazoned in the centre of his helmet. Along with a green cloak (patterned with gold ivy of course), it was hard not to know who he was, even from a distance.
Returning home after winning another tournament, this one in Helmsley, Sir Denys was about half a day’s horse ride from home in Knaresburgh, to the west of the Ryngwoode. His bag of winnings hung from his saddle, full of gold and a few new lady’s favours to add to his collection. The money was nice, though he didn’t need it, and so was the attention of the ladies. But the thrill of the fight along with the cheers of the crowd is what drove him.
The crowd knew he was good. He knew he was good. He didn’t need to win every event, just more than anyone else.
The Ryngwoode itself was avoided by even the bravest of knights. A huge expanse of woodland and long abandoned towns and villages, only criminals or the foolish ventured within. And those that dared and survived told stories of sights and sounds not of this earth. Like any sensible person, knight or otherwise, Sir Denys was skirting around the outskirts of the Ryngwoode, following the aptly titled Ryngwoode Road.
It was early afternoon, but he was in no rush and the weather was pleasant, and after the tournament it was nice to have some peace and calm. His squire was recovering from an illness back in Knaresburgh, so hadn’t joined him for this tournament (it’s a wonder he won anything at all with the local squire they assigned him, he thought). The road was quiet, the only noise being the wind in the trees and the soft beat of his horse’s hooves beneath him.
As the road rounded a corner he could see what appeared to be a broken cart with no horse, and he could just about make out the legs of someone propped up against the front of the cart.
Now, as much as I may mock these guys and their names, they are knights and they aren’t daft (well, not most of them). Sir Denys knew a trap when he saw one. As soon as he had his back to the woodland, tending to the ‘injured’ cart owner, he’d be rushed by bandits.
Cautiously, he dismounted from his horse and slowly entered the treeline.
The Ryngwoode stretches from the ruins of the town of Malton in the east, across to Knaresburgh in the west and up north to Helmsley. Every child in the area is told the tales of the monsters and demons that dwell within. This made it the perfect place for criminals to plot and hide. How many bandit hideaways existed within the forest was anyone’s guess.
Although he didn’t believe in the stories of monsters and demons, he knew of knights much stronger and braver than himself (not that he himself would ever admit to there being such knights) who claimed to have heard and seen things they could not explain within the Ryngewoode, who said no amount of gold would get them to venture back in. Tricks of the mind caused by shadows probably, he thought, or traps set by the bandits and reavers who called this place home to ward off anyone snooping about.
He tied his horse, Lady Baucent, carefully to an old fence post just within the treeline, out of sight, and carefully made his way towards the trees opposite the cart.
As he got closer to the damaged cart, he slowly drew his sword, preparing to surprise his would-be attackers. However, the surprise was on him.
Laying before him were the bodies of six or seven men, brutally slain, all missing limbs and some missing their heads. Blood slowly dripped from nearby bushes. The trees painted red. These men, though probably not very well trained, knew how to fight, and judging by how close together their bodies were, they were either taken by surprise or had been surrounded quickly. Very quickly. Either way, they had found themselves up against a much stronger, and faster, force.
Checking over the bodies he heard a cough come from the road, he’d been so surprised by the scene in the treeline he’d forgotten about the body on the road. A body that turned out to be very much alive.
“I can hear you over there boy, come to finish me off?” said a voice between coughs and splutters.
Sir Denys gripped his sword, preparing himself for the inevitable trap before him, and slowly walked around to the front of the cart.
“Well… either you ain’t no bandit, good sir, or you stole yourself some fancy armour,” said the man. He was in bad shape, but he had no obvious wounds. He looked to be around sixty years of age, grey beard, and balding. By his clothes he looked to be more than a simple peasant, possibly a lower merchant.
“What happened here?” asked Sir Denys, trying to sound assertive rather than confused.
“Bloody horse kicked me and bolted,” the man said, between coughs. “My bones aren’t what they were. But I suspect you’re asking about the bodies amongst the trees… Help me up and I’ll tell you all about it, if you wish.”
Sir Denys took one last look through the treeline, just to be sure, before sheathing his sword and removing his helmet, his long golden hair falling over his shoulders.
***
To be continued…
Or download the full short story as a free PDF here.
***
The Knight Of Ivy Soundtrack: