A March of Kings - By Morgan Rice Page 0,44
Legion’s field.”
Erec laughed.
“Were you, then?” Erec asked.
“Yes, we were ten years old. And you didn’t stand a chance!” Brandt yelled.
Erec laughed.
“I haven’t beat you since then—but then again, no one has, so I don’t feel so bad. But I can always have a second chance now, can’t I?” Brandt asked with a laugh.
Brandt draped an arm around Erec and turned and led him through the crowd, on foot, towards the castle. The Duke and his men fell in beside them.
“Out of the way, you Ruffians!” Brandt called out good-naturedly. “We have a real member of The Silver here!”
Erec laughed. It was good to see his old friend again.
“You might be the better fighter, but I can still drink you under the table!” Brandt said as they went.
“We shall have to see about that,” Erec said.
“Your joining our competition shall be news indeed,” the Duke said. “Most of all for these ladies. Look at them. Every single one stares at you. After all, they’ve come from all corners of the Ring to find a husband—and you will be the most eligible of all!”
“At tonight’s feast,” Brandt added, “you will get to see them up close. They will all be there. You will have your choice. You will name one tonight, I hope! Yes, that will make our games much, much more interesting!”
As they continued through the crowd, past the dozens of women, past the other knights trying to catch a glimpse of their new competition, Erec was happy to be at his old friend’s side, and he felt very welcome. He looked forward to the night’s festivities, especially after a hard day’s ride. He also felt overwhelmed: he wasn’t sure he was ready to pick a bride tonight.
But as he passed one beautiful woman after the next, he could not help but feel that tonight would be the night when everything changed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Godfrey sat before the bar in the small tavern early in the day, the drinks already getting to his head. This had been the worst week he could remember. First, there was his father’s death and funeral; then, there was his brother Gareth’s crowning ceremony. He needed a drink. After all, what better way to toast a brother he hated? What better way to say goodbye to a father who had hated and disapproved of him his entire life?
As Godfrey sat there, flanked on either side by two of his drinking fellows, Akorth, a towering, burly fat man past his prime, with a wild red beard, and Fulton, a thin, older man with a voice that was way too raspy and a face prematurely aged by drink, Godfrey found himself surprised by his own feelings of despair. He had always thought that the day his father died would be a day of rejoicing, the day that the oppressor had finally been lifted off his shoulders, the day that he was finally free to drink, to live his way of life, without repercussions. In a way, it was. He felt some sense of relief, of liberation, no longer having his father around to disapprove of him. He felt freer to spend his life as he wished, to drink all day long without fear of recrimination.
But at the same time, to his surprise, he felt an unexpected feeling of remorse. There must have been something deep within him, something he had suppressed, something even he didn’t realize, which bubbled up within him. He could hardly believe it, but he had to admit that a part of him was sad that his father was dead. A part of him actually wished he were still alive, and wished, more than anything, that he could have his approval. That just for one moment, his father would accept him for who he was, on his own terms. Even if he were nothing like him.
Oddly enough, Godfrey did not feel free, either. He had always expected that the day his father died, he would feel free to drink even more, to lock himself in the tavern with his friends. But now that he was dead, oddly, Gareth no longer felt as much of a desire to drink. There was something inside him he had never experience before, some desire to go out and do something. Something responsible, he did not know what. It was weird, but there was a part of him that actually felt what it was like to be in his father’s shoes.
“Another!” Akorth shouted to the bartender, who hurried over with three new