The Knight of Terriers had always found walking between the rows of tents erected by the army of Bleufontaine a rewarding experience. Peyton enjoyed studying the soldiers and what motivated them in a time of waiting.
Walking passed some men throwing dice on a turned-over barrel, they instantly looked up and gave a quick salute in respect. A desire rushed over him, to sit with them and take part in the gambling, yet he knew it was not what was expected of him.
Hearing the dice rattle on the wood gave him a rush, that only battle appeared to come close to replicating, he knew he could beat these men with ease, but as a Knight of the Isovine empire, fraternising with the common soldier would have been greatly frowned upon.
He was the son of a knight errant, and only his exploits, even at such a young age, had allowed him to gain respect among his peers. Yet, as hard as it was to gain their respect, one false move could rapidly obliterate it.
Some looked upon the young man as a mercenary, a knight with little money and no lands, yet he was still a knight, hoping to bring honour to a name that had never seen any for over four hundred winters. When he selected men from the prisons and gallows to create a fighting unit that would be influential in the war, he knew it would be looked upon with great disdain, and any chance of gaining honour from his choices would be negligible. Yet, what honour would he gain if he did not have these men by his side?
The choice, however, was not without reward. His fighting unit was the most fearsome and experienced in the second army. Other men quivered at the sight of them, and through Peyton's respect and discipline that he had instilled in these forgotten people, they were looked upon with awe.
With every reward, there was an element of risk. He and his men were expendable. They were not liked, they were not wanted, therefore they would be the vanguard in nearly every battle. They were the first to assault in a siege, the first to fight, and the first to die. Peyton was risking their lives, every day, in the hope that he and his men, could one day become more than what they are.
As he watched the men that played with their dice, he envied them, that they had each other and their camaraderie.
Was that why he inadvertently and foolishly saved this Ruvian Chevalier, to create some sort of bizarre relationship between himself and his prisoner that he longed for from his peers?
Continuing his walk toward his tent, Peyton knew his thoughts were betraying him. He was tired, hungry, and frustrated, and perhaps he just needed time to rest and think of things of no consequence.
With each step forward in the squelching and sinking mud, it brought him closer to the reality of the situation. He could not think of things of no consequence, honour was something he desired but could never embrace and soon he would be stuck in a civil war that would tear this army apart.
Peyton trusted Ethelston with his life, but he also knew the Duke of Ravenscourt was foolhardy and rash. What if he was mistaken by this woman Loldirr? What if her heritage was incorrect, or that Ethelston was inadvertanly drawn toward her feminine features? Ethelston worshipped the female form, but even he wouldn't risk the entire Isovine Empire over some beautiful lady.
Or would he?
"Milord, the prisoner is inside," Jeffords spoke forcibly snapping Peyton's focus back to reality.
With all the thoughts fighting inside of his mind, Peyton hadn't realised that he had stepped to the opening of his home deep within the scores of tents.
Peyton briefly nodded before quickly entering his spacious tent. The Chevalier had been bound to the pole that kept the tent upright and his stoic features did not once glance upon his new captor.
Peyton studied the man as he walked past him eager to unburden himself of shield and sword.
"Jeffords, see to it that this man is fed and watered," ordered Peyton.
"Aye milord, and for you?"
By offering the prisoner substance, Peyton had squandered any chance to feed himself. To eat now would cause the Chevalier to starve, to allow the Chevalier to eat, meant Peyton's growling stomach would crescendo more.
"Just water for me, and Jeffords?"
"Aye, milord?" Jeffords replied, angrily towering over the prisoner of war.
"Make sure men are guarding my tent at all times. Make sure that no harm comes to the Chevalier whilst in my custody."
Peyton could see Jefford's eyes twitch furiously at the request, but with a quick nod, he exited without a word of dissent.
With only the two knights left within the tent, Peyton slumped to the floor, resting his back against the chest in which his sword lay. As his gaze returned to the chevalier, it was not returned in kind. The chevalier's green eyes refused to look at him, instead, they flitted around the room, studying every section of Peyton's makeshift home.
"Escape is futile," the tired Peyton commented, "but this is also the safest place for you within the camp, you have my word."
The chevalier appeared to frown at the comment.
"You name, sir, what shall I call you?" Peyton asked, still on edge despite the exhaustion washing over his body.
The chevalier remained solemn and quiet, staring at his captor with contempt.
It was the first time that Peyton had looked at the Ruvian knight. Despite his armour being removed, the chevalier was still stocky, and his curly mousy coloured bushy beard and hair couldn't hide the fact that he was likely twice his age.
Peyton knew that Ruvians were a proud people and the chevalier wouldn't have taken kindly to being defeated, let alone by someone who could barely grow whiskers on his freckled ginger face.
"While I understand your hesitation to speak, my lord, I must encourage you to do so. While you remain in this tent, you will be treated with courtesy and dignity. As soon as you are removed from here, both of those will be forfeited. At some point, the Earl of Caernleigh will request an update, and if I can not provide him one, he will take you and he will break you."
The chevalier snorted in a brief bout of laughter.
Peyton looked at him emotionless. "Do not think you can withstand his torture. I have seen men walk into his dungeons and bags of meat rolled out. His methods are brutal and degrading."
As his eyes drifted away from Peyton's, the young knight knew his captive was not taking him seriously. Peyton just hoped that the Ruvian would see sense before it was too late. He knew that it did not matter that he was a noble, Sir Emhyr Renfry would use any means necessary to gather information from the man in front of him. As fantastic a commander as the Earl of Caernleigh was, his moral compass was almost the opposite of Peyton's, and sometimes, Peyton felt his superior took exceeding pleasure in delivering pain.
He had no desire to begin a war of wits with the captive and instinctively rested his head backward on the chest, briefly allowing his thoughts to settle his troubled mine.
"Milord?"
"Milord?"
As the voice could be heard, breaking through his thoughts, he instinctively reached for a dagger strapped to his waist, resting it forcefully on the man speaking to him. As he opened his eyes, his focus, dim at first, settled on his trusted friend Jeffords, whose neck appeared slightly red as the dagger rested upon it.
Glancing toward the Chevalier, who was chuckling at the predicament that Peyton had got himself into, Peyton realised that at some point he had fallen asleep. Lowering his dagger, his face reddened in embarrassment, "Apologies Jeffords, I must have dozed off."
"Aye, Milord," Jeffords responded nonchalantly. Rubbing the trickle of blood away, the various marks and indents on his skin suggested it was not the first time a knife had been held against his throat. "Sir Cedwyn is 'ere."
Unexpectantly, a sigh escaped the young man's lips, a sign of displeasure he did not want to display in front of his captor who was still smiling at the young man's misfortune.
Peyton stood to his feet, and before he could give Jeffords the signal to allow Sir Cedwyn to enter, the Count of Oakfort had already pushed his way past the guards at the entrance.
"You make me wait, boy?" Cedwyn commented abruptly.
"Apologies my lord, I welcome you into my tent," Peyton replied with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Your inability to follow orders has made me look weak in front of the other nobles," Cedwyn accused, his voice slightly raised.
"That was not my intention, my lord. While I understand the orders, my honour dictates that..."
"Honour? You are a knight errant, you have no honour, you are simply here because of your ability as a fighter and your reputation with the Manticore Hunter. There will come a time when neither of those will be of much value anymore, and when that day comes, I will ensure that you are humiliated and executed like the dog that you are."
Peyton did not say anything in response, yet his right-hand man, Jeffords, instinctively reached for his axe and placed his hand on the top of it.
"How dare you?" Cedwyn reacted to the threat, "I should have you executed immediately for your insubordination."
Foolishly, as Cedwyn responded ferociously toward Jeffords, he had not spotted the two other men under Peyton's command flank him, both with their hands on their weapons.
Peyton raised his hand in an instant, as he watched Cedwyn's face turn to fear, aware that with one word, Sir Peyton could have him butchered by the three convicted soldiers who would take pleasure in ending his life.
"Weapons away men," Peyton ordered.
Immediately all three men released their grip on their weapons, but their bloodthirsty eyes remained on their target.
"My men are tired from battle and the long walk with the supplies," Peyton reacted, eager to calm the situation, "I hope no offence is given in this misunderstanding?"
Sir Cedwyn turned toward the men who stood on either side of him deliberately covering the exit. Their toned bodies and faces full of bitterness, caused the knight to react in a calming non-confrontational matter.
"No offence is taken, Sir Peyton, I am just here to ensure that the prisoner is properly secure." Cedwyn commented, "I must take my leave."
Before Peyton could respond, Cedwyn had slunk passed the two guards leaving the tent opening to flutter enthusiastically.
"He really doesn't like you, milord," Jeffords responded, a broken smile appearing on his disjointed long face.
"No, he doesn't," Peyton responded, slinking back down to the floor allowing the tiredness aching his body to ease.
"Can I ask what his issue is? It appears very personal," asked Jeffords.
Sir Peyton smiled at his subordinate's curiosity. "I was once his father's squire, Sir Vermund, a man who longed for adventure and notoriety. Sir Vermund was good to me, treated me almost like a son, and he preferred to take me on his adventures instead of Sir Cedwyn."
"Why?" Jeffords asked, so eager to know the story that he forgot his etiquette.
Sir Peyton smiled once more, enthused by Jefford's inquisitiveness, "For that, I can not speak ill of my superiors," Peyton responded diplomatically. "But I can say his bitterness toward me does not come from my interaction with his father, it comes from our last adventure together. My Lord, Sir Vermund, arranged an expedition to the Sea of Sorrows, to kill a fabled Manticore. On returning from the expedition, I gained notoriety, he lost a father. As he became the Count of Oakfort, I became the squire to the legendary mercenary, the Manticore Hunter. His father's death was my gain, and after squiring for three winters for the Manticore Hunter, my reputation was enough that I was almost begged to join the second army."
"You knew Lord Ethelston Darke?" a strange foreign voice came from across the room.
Peyton glanced towards the chevalier, his eyes wide in awe at hearing the Manticore Hunter's name mentioned.
"I do, my Lord, and I know him still."
For the first time since they interacted, the chevalier's smile was not of malice, "I am the Marquis Raolet de Villiers, the Chevalier Des Serres, speak to me of your adventures with the Manticore Hunter. If you do so and honour me with your tales, then I will indeed speak to you in return."