Sir Caedwyr looked
down on his ruined coat of plates and split open shirt of mail,
and then on to his own intestines. Surprisingly, and despite
all tales to the contrary, it hurt. A lot.
He remembered charging
across the field on Marybelle, his fine black charger, when
some cheeky Scotsman had ducked under his lance point and swung
an axe at him. An awful, big axe. What ever had become of his
fine steed?
There she was, with
what looked to be that cheeky Scotsman sticking out from underneath
her. Served him right. Marybelle had always been a boon companion
in battle.
“I suppose I am
dying. I wish I could get on with it. This hurts.”
A flutter of wings
distracted his musings. Two ravens had settled to ground just
past his out-flung arm, which he was sure by the angle was
broken but which still clutched the stub of his lance.
“Filthy birds!” Sir
Caedwyr spat.
“I beg your pardon!” the
nearer raven exclaimed. It spread its wings and tail feathers
in a display of sleek sable plumage. “We are most certainly
not filthy birds. See? I’m as sleek and shiny as a maiden at
the marriage alter. It is you who is covered with muck and
filth, lying there wallowing in that blood-churned mud and
drawing flies. And you call us filthy!”
Sir Caedwyr flushed
with shame. “Your pardon, good ravens. My insolence is reprehensible,
and my only excuse is that I am having a bad day.” He had always
prided himself on his courtesy. No reason at all to fail at
that, right at the end.
The second raven
spoke. “No offence taken, Sir Knight, for we can see that you
are indeed having a bad day. Take heart though, it looks to
be your last one.”
“Yes,” admitted
Sir Caedwyr. “I suppose it is.”
“Well, what did
you expect?” This from the first raven. “The world’s a hard
enough place, without running around swinging and poking at
each other with sharp things. Not that we’re complaining.”
“No, indeed,” the
second chimed. “A feast for us. We and all our cousins will
be a week or more cleaning up this lot.”
Sir Caedwyr grimaced
as a wave of pain and nausea washed over him. He cried out, “Oh,
why has my lord left me here to die like this? Why has he not
granted me at least the mercy of a quick death?”
“Your foes have
broken and fled over yonder ridge,” the first raven replied. “Your
lord is harrying them.”
“He left some men
behind, to succor the wounded and help along the dying. They’re
off over there a way, where the fighting was thickest,” the
second raven said. “You’re kind of off to one side. I expect
they will work their way over here, eventually.”
“Not too soon, though,” opined
the first. “They are despoiling the dead as they go along,
and hauling the ones from your side for burial.”
“Less food for us
and more for the worms.”
“But easier pickings,
that, without all that metal wrapped about it.”
“True enough,” agreed
the other, who hopped up on the broken lance shaft and picked
at a bit of intestine.
“Do you mind?” asked
Sir Caedwyr, “I’m not all done here.”
“Sorry. I forgot.
Not too long now, though.”
“This,” Sir Caedwyr
lamented, “is not the end I looked for.”
“What?” asked the
first bird. “Did you look to fall amid glory, to be borne off
the battlefield amid the lamentations of your fellow knights
and laid in honor on a bier of spears?”
“Not at all,” Sir
Caedwyr replied. “I’d hoped to pass peacefully in my bed, surrounded
by family and friends. Long into old age.” He eyed the birds. “All
I ever wanted was to keep the king’s peace on my lands, to
husband them to prosperity and perhaps to increase them modestly.
Happy tenants and a well-pleased liege lord would have put
me well pleased to find my grave.”
“Then why all this
running about and making war, Sir Knight?” asked the first
raven.
“That was my lord’s
doing, and none of mine. I hold my land from him, that I answer
his call to arms. He fell into some disagreement with the Scots
and their lords, and called. And so I answered, as was my duty.”
“See that Scotsman
laying yonder, Sir Knight?” asked the second raven.
“Aye.”
“Do you suppose
he wanted this any more than you? Do you think he wanted aught
but that his daughters marry well and his sons tend his flocks
after he was gone?”
“I suppose not.” cough
cough “That’s the blighter what did me, eh? Well, I bear him
no ill will. We’re both meat for your table, now.”
“As may be. There
is no bad without some good in it. For someone,” the birds
replied.
“You’ve been decent
enough, for carrion crows. No offense.”
“Not at all. You
are rather well spoken yourself. For carrion.”
“I wish I could
see my good wife. And my son, my poor young boy…” Sir Caedwyr
fell silent. The voices of the men working the bloody field
grew closer.
“He was quite the
gentleman,” said the first raven, plucking an eyeball into
his beak.
“Yes,” agreed the
second, while worrying at the intestines. “A very nice sort.”
# # #
Two Ravens by
Michael D. Turner
originally
published January 5, 2009