The Writings of a Paladin: First Night in Ashford

He stood for a moment in thought, his hand still upon the latch of the door he just pulled closed, a frown of concern on his features, the ominous scowl making his face, and his eyes, even darker. Perhaps it would not be wise to be too far away this night....true, he could not share his room with the lady, that would not be proper....but clearly she was confused, not thinking clearly, and really in no condition to see to her own defense, should the need arise. From their earlier conversation it seemed the beautiful Lana MacLeod kept secrets that could be her undoing...but not at his initiative, and, not tonight, with him on guard. He had, after all, just promised that no harm would come to her. Due to the lateness of the hour, the rest of the rooms were occupied for the night and he had thought to make his way to the stable, where at least his stallion's lodgings could be shared without causing gossip...but now he thought better of it. He expelled his breath and leaned against the door frame, a slight grimace on his face as his shoulder jammed up against the rough and unforgiving wood. He lifted a hand to massage it through his clothing, in hopes to ease the throbbing that still lingered from the torn and mangled tissues just now beginning to heal, his thoughts playing over the recent events that had delayed his arrival in Ashford....cautious though he had been, still he had been blindsided by the attack, and still he chided himself for allowing it to happen....he should have been in Ashford days ago, already made his presence known to the Lady Keira, and offered his letter and assistance to her....stupid and sloppy he had been in his carelessness. It was not so much his own welfare that concerned him... but the Duke had entrusted him and expected him to make good on his mission....the sooner the better, for a number of reasons....and not the least of them, personally to Antonio, would be the swift return to his own estate of Pantera and to the closeness of Bradenford....and Marian.


But now he was tired....it had been a long day and he wanted nothing else than to close his eyes to the world for a few hours. He allowed his body to slide downward, back against the door, long legs bending at the knees, until he was sitting on the floor. Not very comfortable, but he had slept in worse places...here at least he was out of the weather. His injured shoulder was somewhat withdrawn and protected, his body turned slightly so that it pressed into the corner of the door frame...at least luck was with him in that it was not his sword arm and he could still offer an adequate defense with his good right hand. He leaned his head against the doorframe as well and closed his eyes....a few seconds ticked off....and with an inward smile, he raised it again and opened his eyes. No, not gonna happen. No way could he rid his head of the thoughts that filled it to clear the way for sleep. Shifting positions, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small leatherbound volume, his thumb running over the deep indentation on the front cover where the arrow first had struck...the attacker was an excellent marksman and were it not for where he carried the journal on his person....he would not be having these thoughts, or any others, right now. However, the arrow had struck at such an angle that its steel tip had grazed the leather cover instead of piercing it, and his heart behind it - it had only glanced across the leather, sliding off to lodge in the muscles of his shoulder - painful and annoying, none-the-less, but not a fatal wound. He smiled, thinking about the last words he had written there, the last thoughts he had put to paper. Even when she was not with him, still, it seemed, she was not absent - for still, she had protected him. He flipped the latch and opened the journal to a blank page, resting it on his knee. He was not one to squander things he deemed precious ~~ time, money, an excellent wine or a good horse ~~ and so he would make good use of his wakefulness by writing.



My journey has been delayed, by circumstances unforeseen and beyond my power to control. Be that as it may, however, at last this eve I have reached the land of Ashford in search of the Lady Kiera, at the bequest of the Duke of Bradenford and to the benefit of our two lands - as of yet, however, to no avail. But, after all, I have just arrived. I did happen upon one of the main gathering places, a tavern by the name of the Fatted Calf, where I took lodging for the night. Bits and pieces of conversation from the patrons there would seem to indicate that the area has of late been under siege by a fierce and rather determined band of orcs, but details and actual numbers of dead and injured and those captured as prisoners, if any, seem as yet to be sketchy and incomplete, at best. I trust that no harm has befallen the Lady Keira, or surely I would have heard something of that at the tavern, and so I will continue in my search for her on the morrow.



Most at the tavern were strangers to me, although their mannerisms and demeanor made them quite approachable and my presence welcome. One in particular, a lady having some knowledge of me, whom I knew not, prior to this eve, a comely lass by the name of Lana MacLeod. A complicated individual, to be sure, with a somewhat jaded past, if her inuendos are to be believed, but I rather think what she once was is something she now seeks to change. At any rate, I think there I have made a friend, and would hope that she thinks she has, as well, for it occurs to me that both of us might have some commonality for that. As the evening progressed, she seemed to become more and more aggitated...perhaps that is not the proper word....I think more like, unhappy. And so, I have given her my word to act honorably toward her, which seemed to ease her mental

state somewhat, and with my help, she has fallen into a troubled sleep in a room that was to be mine for the night....but no matter...for she was in need of it more than I and it gives me the opportunity to chart my progress in my journal as I pass the night outside her door.



There was, at least, one face here familiar to me, and to many, many others, judging from their greetings to her upon arrival....that be the one called Faith, a woman known to me briefly in Bradenford. It was not without surprise that I acknowledged her presence in the tavern, but of course she has the right to travel between different lands, even as we all do, though her condition is much advanced since last I saw

her. Were I her husband....oh, wait, I do recall that she informed me she was not married....at any rate, were I the father of her child, and her well-being paramount to me, I might insist she remain at home, or at least curtail her activity to when I might accompany her. But perhaps

I write out of turn here, for still, as always, she seemd quite capable of taking care of herself, so who am I to question how or why she came to be here, and, apparently, alone. It was, in the very least, reassuring to see a friend....and I would count her a friend, for I know well the service she has done for me. When the opportunity presents itself, I intend to make my gratitude known to her.



And now, as most often these days, and these long and lonely nights, my thoughts turn to the one I left behind. How often in my mind I relive our brief interlude. The night she accompanied me to Pantera....I watched her with such intensity that I thought every detail of her rapturous face would be burned forever within my memory.....but now that we are apart, I find that her vision fades just a bit with each passing day. I had hoped that night would be the first of many that I would spend in her presence....and perhaps that will indeed be the true future for us both...but for the time being, we are apart one from the other. The distance is not so great that I cannot hear the musings of her heart....and I would hope she could hear mine, as well. Until again we meet, Cara Mia....until again....



His lids were growing heavy, his thoughts sluggish. The journal was closed and placed within the folds of his cloak, which he still wore to ward off the chill of the late night air coarsing through the hallway. He closed his eyes, welcoming the purgatory of sleep, as he waited for the imminent return of morning and the resumption of his search.





Sir Antonio Sabatier

First Knight and Diplomatic Liason to the Duke of Bradenford

The Marquis of Pantera, a.k.a., The Black Panther