BY LEAH FISHER

Fredrick Conley of the House of Constantine walked down the aisle of the church to the place the king had called him. He was a comely young man with flashing eyes and striking features, dressed in his ceremonial vestments, white as the virgin snow with silver chain and a blood red cross upon his chest. Great crowds amassed on either side, filling the ornate pews with life and whispering each one to another as he passed by them. Fredrick kept his eyes fixed upon the altar at the front, his attention turned towards God. The hushed voices of the people and their judgment over him was a weight too heavy for him to bear. All his life he had sought to escape it, but it clung to him like a persistent cephalopod.

Who are you? The question was always present in his mind like some eternal specter. Without father, without mother, without family or home, without inheritance or land, without even so much as hope or expectation, he had long lived in defiance of fate. He may have been discarded, his family disgraced, but he would make this God to love him. His feet would carry him forward; he would stand before the king and receive honor from his hand for all of his mighty works. He would no more be a cause for charity, but he would forge for himself a path in life and of his own merits be lauded. His destiny was his, his alone to design. His soul did not belong to his father, nor to the king… nor even to those who stood and whispered in the pews. His soul was his and his alone. The trouble was that there remained an insatiable emptiness inside of it, one which he labored desperately to cure.

He stepped up to the altar and genuflected before the magnificent ruler. The king was dressed in his royal robes, so colorful and bright. The sun’s glorious rays streamed into the darkness of the cathedral through the masterfully crafted stained-glass of the lancet windows, filling the room with streams of variegated light. Fredrick stood face to face with his monarch, whose gaze was as compassionate and kind as it had ever been. He looked him in the eyes and saw there the reflection of a man, an image of himself.

“Fredrick Conley of the House of Constantine, whose lands were razed and fortunes lost, I count you as a faithful man and call you to my service.” The voice of the upright man with whitening hair and golden crown echoed throughout the open chamber. “What say you to this request?” His voice broke off into silence with the question.

“My lord, I have heard the word of your summoning, and here I present my soul into your service,” Fredrick replied, falling down on bended knee before him.

There was a hush that came over all who were assembled, but still he felt the weight of the people’s eyes as they watched him. No longer did they speak their judgments over him or whisper to their neighbors, but thought was not stayed by stillness of tongue, nor was the heart of man converted. Surely, they disapproved, and they had every right to do so.

Nevertheless, the king raised his glistering sword, its polished blade reflecting the magnificent colors of rainbow light, and touched it down upon the humble shoulders of the displaced foreigner. “Then, in accordance with the laws of our country, I knight you Sir Fredrick Conley. Are you prepared, Sir Fredrick, to follow me in war and in peace, in feast and in famine, in diplomacy and combat, no matter our lot?”

“I am.”

“Arise then with the blessing of your king, and may God himself protect you.”

Those gathered offered the obligatory amen, and it was done.

When the ceremony had ended, the people gone and the king departed, the new knight remained at the foot of the altar. He fell on his face before God, and he wept. He could feel the sun’s warmth on his back, but it did nothing to heal the numbing cold inside of him.

He remembered the night so perfectly, the haunted vision forever burdening his thoughts. When he was only eight years old, Fredrick stood outside of his father’s house in the dark of the cold night and watched as the bright flames of the flashing fire devoured all that he had. What ascended up into the starlit sky was blackest smoke, and he stared wide-eyed at the blaze. Their family had moved there in disgrace, his father banished from his ancestral home by the king he had betrayed. Fredrick’s father had been a court judge and longtime friend of the king, but he fell victim to a mass deception perpetrated by a charismatic prince. A rumor had started that the king was being unjust to his subjects in withholding grain. There was plenty of food in the storehouses, it was said, but his subjects were not receiving their share. The peasants grumbled against the crown and the prince recruited rulers to join him in his treason against the king. While others joined for their own ambitions, Fredrick’s father would not do it but “for the good of the people,” whom he could not suffer to see lack. But he who promised peace and betterment for the land delivered only bloodshed and cruelty. Of all the prince had told them, none was true. When the rebellion was ended, it was proved that the prince himself had been siphoning the grain; the king was innocent of wrong. The prince was put to death along with the faithless rulers who had joined in his rebellion… all but Fredrick’s father, whom the king banished in his mercy, knowing that his intent had been pure. They had only begun to rebuild their life in this foreign land when these raiders had come seeking revenge for the blood of the dead.

Fredrick saw his father come running out of the house, coughing and gasping for air. He threw himself down in front of the commander of the raiders, who sat upon a large, black stallion, and pleaded for the lives of his wife and daughter, both of whom were still inside. His wife he could not wake, and his infant child he had failed to reach before his lungs had filled with smoke and his very breath began to suffocate him. “I beg you, sir, to send your men! I cannot go; I’ll perish.”

The rider raised his sword, threatening the boy’s father as though to remind him that he mayn’t take another step. “Many have died for your sin, Conley: our wives and sisters, sons and daughters, parents and friends. This debt which you owe, you must repay. Die today or die tomorrow, but all must one day perish.”

Fredrick’s father looked past the man with whom he spoke and saw his son out in the field. Their desperate eyes met in silence, and Fredrick’s father smiled at him before turning and rushing back into the house.

There was the moan and cracking of wood as the roof started to cave in, its broad beams falling with smoldering planks and burning embers, but still no souls emerged. Then, as though by some great tragedy written in the stars by the fates of ancient time, there was a loud crashing sound as the roof collapsed altogether. All through the night the fire stayed, even after the vengeful men had ridden away upon their gallant horses, and it burned until there was nothing left but charred wood, misery, and ash. All the while, Fredrick waited, hoping that by some miracle his father might come rushing out again, this time with his sister cradled in their father’s arm and his mother’s hand wrapped around her husband’s, but they never came.

At the breaking of the dawn, when Fredrick sat alone beside the charred foundation and wept, another man did come.

He came and sat down next to Fredrick.

“Christ wept, too, you know?” came the comforting voice of the stranger. “And he has the power over death, so what does that say?”

Fredrick looked up at the man, startled. He was smiling gently down at him, and he wore a strange hat atop his head, priestly robes of white and stately purple, and a large, golden cross hung from a chain around his neck.

“Grief is a heavy burden, much too heavy for us,” the white-haired man said simply. “But, as it happens, God’s inclined to share our grief. The cross, the crucified – ” he took off his necklace and placed it around the boy’s neck. “‘Blessed are the sorrow-bearing, for they shall be comforted’ by him.”

He had always remembered that, drawn comfort from it, but the nightmare remained in his mind, the memory of the burning, and now, as he wept before the altar and his tears mixed with the dirt, he wondered why that God who bore his sorrow felt so far away.

Steady footsteps approached from the center aisle and stopped just short of him. Then a voice rose in the silence, old and familiar. “Pity that a worthy knight should reproach his installation.”

“A worthy knight would have no cause to weep,” Fredrick replied, despondent. “But we both know what I am: a son of the rebellion. There is blood all over me from birth.”

“Put away your father’s sin and let the Lord be the bearer of your sorrows, Fredrick,” the old man replied. “You cannot wear that cross on your chest and bear your guilt before God.”

“The king calls me faithful,” he groaned.

“Well, I should hope so. You’ve lived in his castle for twelve years. Although, perhaps you have been plotting treason for your ancestors.” His voice wreaked of sarcasm at the end.

“Treason, treason…” Fredrick forced himself to rise and sat upon a marble step which led up to the altar. He looked the bishop in the face. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you care for me? I was the last of my house. I could have died in those ashes, alone with my sorrows. Nobody would have cared if I had.”

“Christ would,” the bishop replied firmly. “Perhaps that’s why he sent me to you.”

“Christ, the man of sorrows, who took our sin and bore our grief,” Fredrick shot back bitterly. “How is it that I sometimes find that so hard to believe? Not for others, but for myself.”

“Oh, Fredrick…” the bishop sighed, and he came and sat down beside him on the step. “You want to atone for the sins of a thousand generations, but a man cannot cover even his own debt. Whether to God or the king, Fredrick, your worth is not in your name but in His.” He traced the crimson cross which spanned the young knight’s torso. “You must remember when you wear it.”

Fredrick nodded, tears fresh in his eyes, and he gripped at his breast. “I’ll try to live worthy of it.”

***

As Fredrick grew accustomed to his duties as a knight, one task which he found particularly appealing was anything having to do with the king’s daughter, Theodosia. No matter how dull the mission, it was made splendid by her, and it came to delight Fredrick to volunteer for the duty of escorting her about in hopes that she might spare him a few words in conversation. He always remembered how her eyes sparkled with the light of God and how the beauty of her countenance shone as though the glory of the heavens was in her. She rode her speckled horse with grace and showed great kindness to her servants, just as she did to all. Above all, Fredrick knew that whenever she was near all of his anxieties melted and the numbing cold that he so often felt was turned to an impassioned flame.

It was often that the knights would gather around before a day’s labors for a high-spirited – if not downright boastful – discussion of their respective tasks. The others told stories of wars and bandits, great spoils and brave hunting parties under the king’s command, but Fredrick’s thoughts turned solely to Theodosia. There was nothing so exhilarating to him as to be by her side, and he mentioned as much to his friend, the noble Sir Francis, who unhesitatingly devised a scheme for him to win the hand of the fair maiden. All that Fredrick would have to do in order to get the king’s attention was slay a thousand-year-old dragon. “But don’t worry,” Francis assured him, “I’ll help you gather your two hundred Philistine foreskins!”

It was a short time later that Fredrick stepped past the edge of the woodlands east of the castle and onto the highlands, where the jagged cliffs met the restless waters of the north. The knight was mounted on his horse in full battle attire, as were the other men who had ventured to journey with him — knights of the king’s court, all. The king had been hesitant to send them and would have denied Fredrick his wish, were it not for Francis, who insisted in his typical manner of overconfidence that the attempt to slaughter the dragon be made. As glad as he was for the king’s allowance, Fredrick could not shake the shadowed look of distress which had fallen over his face when Francis had come to his aid in support of this “glorious quest.” The monarch had looked as a man who, seeing a vision of great calamity and knowing himself unable to avoid it, had resigned himself to the fates and somberly decided to devote himself to earnest prayer in the distant hope that God might somehow intervene; it was not the sort of look which inspired confidence in the heart of a love-struck knight.

Broken limbs of branches, bone-picked carcasses, gashes of claws, and monstrous tracks told the group of knights that they were coming dangerously close, and soon every rustling of leaf or call of a bird became their enemy. Fredrick’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the heavy beat of leathery wings somewhere in the distance. He looked everywhere above him, craning his neck, but the plentiful leaves of the high trees obstructed his view to the point that it was hopeless. Then came the sound of something cutting through the air like a well forged blade. Sturdy branches of the trees around them snapped like feeble twigs and fell on them, shooting off tiny arrows in the form of splintered wood and wounding some of the knights, but that was the least of their worries. The dragon crashed through the canopy in a predatory dive, its paws landing squarely on the backs of two of the men, who only for a moment let out the most agonizing shrieks while their skeletons were being crushed, their bones turned quickly to powder. The dragon then grabbed one of the remaining knights and hurled him against the trunk of a tree before knocking three knights from their horses with a whip of its tail.

Fredrick’s courage was failing him, and the destruction seemed so effortless that he wondered whether any among them would even live to report the meaningless death of his comrades.

“They say no man can slay him,” Francis said, his face set against the beast in deathly defiance. “But for the man God shall send, by one word shall he fall.”

Fredrick looked over at his friend. “Might we have consulted God beforehand?”

Francis smirked grimly. “Fear not, Sir Fredrick, for it is our Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” He put down his visor and drew his sword, raising it to the impenetrable heavens. “Come, you beast, and meet your end!” he cried, riding at the beast.

He made contact, much to Fredrick’s astonishment, with the neck of the great beast and thrashed at its throat until his sword pierced the monster’s scaled hide and drew its blackish blood.

The dragon let out a mighty shriek. Smoke spewed from its snout, then fire from its lips, and within seconds the forest was a blaze of orange flames, the villainous light of their deadly dance casting terrifying shadows all around with every burning branch. Any knights who could, fled. Their courage shaken, they abandoned Francis, Fredrick, and the dead, left to face their fate alone. The dragon’s wrath fixed solely on Francis, the beast unrelenting of its fierce counter against this unwanted assailant. Fredrick looked on in horror as the dragon slapped Francis in a fit of fury, throwing him from his horse and sending the proud knight flying into the broad trunk of a burning tree. 

Fredrick leapt from his horse and ran to his friend. “Francis!” he cried and fell down on his knees beside him. 

Francis’ eyes half-opened. He was trying to speak, but no words were coming. 

“Lord have mercy,” Fredrick muttered. He latched his arms around the injured knight and dragged him to a grassless area of raw earth, lest he be burned alive. “I swear, I’ll get you home.”

“No…” Francis shook his head weakly. His eyes blinked slowly, fighting to remain open.

“Fredrick… you kill him.” He touched a trembling hand to Fredrick’s sword. “Let the dead bury the dead. God goes with the living.”

Fredrick nodded, teary eyed, and he grasped at the hilt of his sword. Then he squeezed Francis’ hand and placed it upon his armored breast, which rose and fell with each ragged breath. “If God is with me as you say, then let Him keep my vow to bring you safely home.”

Fredrick took firm hold of his blade and stood to face the great horned beast with the leathery crimson hide. He pointed the tip of the sword right between the flaring nostrils of the cursed creature whose eyes glowed a murderous gold as though it were a poisoned snake, its fangs filled with a deadly venom, and he charged at it, headlong, with his blood pumping as it never had before that day or since.

The dragon crouched close to the earth, defending its wounds, and stared menacingly at its prey. Puffs of sulfuric smoke, black as ash, clouded around the dragon’s face, disorienting Fredrick. He coughed, his lungs hurting, and thought again of his father. No, he would not die in vain as he had. Rather, the young knight charged ahead, right into the mouth of his adversary, which hung open like a gaping tomb, stretched wide to swallow him. Fear gripped the warrior for a fleeting instant, but all of it fled again at the memory of Francis’ words. Yes, God is with the living.

“The Lord rebuke you,” Fredrick said. Then, pulling the last of his strength, he thrust his blade upward and through, penetrating from gum to scalp, so that the wretched beast was slain. However, when his enemy collapsed, so did Fredrick.

By the time he awoke, Fredrick was lying on a straw mattress in a familiar room. It was the bishop’s quarters in the castle. He had the vague memory of the faint sounds of a search party and the lingering impression of some men working to pry open the dragon’s mouth, but it was all a distant haze. He felt a faint pain in his lungs as he breathed, and the more he stirred, the more acutely aware he became of the soreness spread throughout his body. Even so, he turned back the covers and dressed himself in the fine white garments and ceremonial tunic which his caretakers had left for him before he sauntered over to the lancet window.

Outside, the sun cast its golden rays upon the castle grounds, and Fredrick pondered how the beauty of the day could be in such distinct opposition to all that he felt. He remembered the hard-fought battle, the blood of his comrades poured out for the death of some strange beast and the promise of glory. The thought that he had initiated the campaign which led to their deaths was a sickly torment, and it settled in his stomach like a stone. There was not enough glory in all of the world to justify it. He remembered Francis and wondered whether he was still alive or not, whether the search party found him before the fires did, whether his wounds had been to death or not. He prayed that he was alive, but he feared that he may not be, and the loss of his best friend was too great a pain for his heart to endure, so he fought to cast it from his mind.

The door opened, and a familiar step approached from behind him. “How are you feeling?” the bishop inquired.

“I’m alive,” Fredrick replied, “but to what purpose? I am responsible for the deaths of so many, and Francis—”

“Tells a different story,” the bishop inserted.

Fredrick looked at him. “He’s alive, then?”

The bishop nodded. “He says that when the other men ran, you stood by and fought the beast with all you had. He heralds you as the finest knight in all the realm.”

Fredrick shook his head, and his eyes returned to the space beyond the window. “He exaggerates.”

“The king wants to hold a feast in your honor; he wants to make you a nobleman. The people sing your praises in the streets, because you have delivered them of the terror.” He paused. “Fredrick, you have restored your family name. Why are you so malcontented?”

Fredrick wet his lips. “I thought that it would be enough… but I don’t feel anything.” His eyes returned to the man of God. “What difference does it make that the king calls me a nobleman? My blood was that of a traitor since birth. And what does it matter if the people hail me in the streets? I am as I was. My blood is tainted.”

“Then take His,” replied the bishop, pointing to the bronze crucifix which hung on the wall between them.

Fredrick shook his head and clutched the cross stained fabric which he wore. “I am not worthy of this! I have tried! Bishop, I’ve tried, but…” his voice broke and his eyes glazed with tears, “it was never enough. I find myself wanting.”

The bishop laid a heavy hand on the slumped shoulder of the sorrowful knight. “Fredrick, our king has summoned you, and you must go before him. He knows what you have done and what your father’s done. Ask his mercy, if your heart desires it, but stop eating sour grapes.”

Fredrick fought for his composure and pressed his eyes dry. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I’ll do.”

The bishop led him through the halls of the castle-fortress to the throne room of their king. Two guards attended the doors, which stood three times the height of an average man, and they allowed him alone to pass into the king’s presence, so that he might receive his reward. The doors were opened, and Fredrick saw the king sitting upon his throne, clothed in all his royal splendor, but he dared not enter.

“Sir Fredrick Conley of the House of Constantine.” The monarch smiled at him. “You have done me a great service. Come you here.”

Fredrick approached with a shaking step and bowed. “Your Majesty the King.”

“I hear you have eyes for my daughter,” the king continued. “It may quell your trepidation to know that I have addressed the matter with her, and it would delight her that you should wed.”

Fredrick’s heart beat to a nervous rhythm. “My lord is too kind.” He paused, trying to understand why that news had brought him guilt rather than pleasure. “I would covet, also, your blessing.”

The king nodded. “Of course, you have it. Sir Fredrick, you have served me faithfully. You have stopped the mouth of my enemy.”

Fredrick dropped down to his knees and rent his tunic. “Alas! I am your servant! What have I done but my duty to you, lord?” He hung his head. “Though I try to repay you my debt, I merely fulfill my obligation.”

The king stood to his feet. Slowly, he descended the marble stairs, his long robes trailing behind him. When he stood before the face of his servant, he lowered his sparkling scepter and lifted the boy’s chin. Then, looking into the tear-stained eyes of the battered youth, he said, “What would you have me to do for you?”

Fredrick gazed into the pitying stare of the humble monarch and felt as though he had never truly seen his face until that very instance. “Grant me your mercy, O lord; that will be enough.”

The king smiled, radiant, and Fredrick felt his nerves subside as a warmth rose up within his innermost being. Then, the king dropped down also to his knees and embraced the man whom he would call a son.

Fredrick was taken wholly by surprise at the unorthodoxy of the sovereign, but a sense of relief filled him, and all of the shameful guilt that he had felt for so long quietly slipped away when the king uttered the words, “You have it.”