Grimbert
The ground was hard and unyielding. As Grimbert lay curled up on his side, a small stone dug into his shoulder and he shifted his weight to try to dislodge it. It was only a minor discomfort, but it symbolized all that was wrong.
Why wasn't he back in his own bed in Loconge? What mistakes had led him to this moment? Maybe if his mother had appreciated him more, he would have stayed behind to care for her. Maybe if he had had any hope of being granted master status with the weaver's guild he would have been motivated to continue focusing on his craft. He just never got any breaks. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. And it certainly wasn't fair that Richart was dead. His thoughts spun so fast that it made him dizzy.
Grimbert turned his eyes skyward, hoping to be steadied by the familiar and reliable patterns in the stars. But while looking out at the vastness of the universe he wondered, where was God? Why was this being done to him?
As he gazed up at the sky, he noted how the full moon drowned out the brightness of the stars. The pale-yellow orb dominated the night sky, just as Richart had dominated so much of his life.
Grimbert inventoried his memories: happy moments, like when he received an apprenticeship as a weaver; sad moments, like when his father had died; and the mundane moments that filled in the spaces. Richart seemed to be there for all of it.
As boys they had been inseparable. When they were very young, they would play by the river, throwing stones and catching frogs. Sometimes, when they were feeling especially devilish, they'd carry the poor creatures, squirming and kicking in their mud-caked hands, back to Grimbert's house and release them where Boda and Marta were sitting. They'd then watch in glee as Grimbert's two older sisters ran and screamed.
Later, when peach fuzz had sprouted on their cheeks and lust had sprouted in their hearts, they sat along the market square, cracking jokes and trying to attract the attention pretty girls who were shopping with their mothers. The girls did look at them, but never in the way that they hoped.
Now there would be no more new memories. All because of a pack of bandits came to their camp, and Hildegund had awoken them and sent Richart into danger.
And here Grimbert was, curled up like a coward, and whining like a baby.
The weight of his sobriety made his legs feel heavy and slow. The stone by his shoulder no longer bothered him. He was stone. Immobile in his sorrow.
He felt so pathetic and small.
Grimbert starkly remembered one of the first times that he'd felt this weak. He had been a round-faced ten-year-old. His hair, a dull mousy brown, was always getting in his eyes, and he habitually wiped at his brow with the back of his wrist. So, on one breezy autumn day, it happened that young Grimbert had accidently streaked dirt across his face. He was sitting along a short stone fence, the tall grass tickling at his ankles as orange and yellow leaves floated and twirled in the gusts of wind. He was waiting for Richart, and as he sat there, periodically wiping at his bangs and glancing down the road, a small group of slightly older boys approached him.
Loconge was a city of substantial size, but it was still small enough that most of the boys knew each other by sight, if not always by name. Grimbert didn't know any of these boys well, but he'd once seen them push over an unattended cart and then run away laughing when the merchant came screaming towards them. So, when he saw that they were walking towards him, he clenched up.
"Hey fatso," taunted a tall boy with long stringy blonde hair, a square dimpled chin, and squinty eyes, "Why aren't you in the sty with the other pigs?"
Grimbert hadn't known how to respond, but his face must have revealed his confusion, because all the boys started to laugh, a cruel cackle that reverberated in his ears and burned his cheeks.
"Hey, we asked you a question," jeered another boy.
"Dirt face," the third one snickered.
Time seemed to slow. They seemed to circle in on him. A pack of wolves closing in on their prey. And like a scared rabbit he froze, his eyes darting as he helplessly looked around for a way to escape.
And then he heard the reassuring voice, "What are you jerks doing?" Behind them stood Richart, tall for his age, his dark eyes piercing and his posture commanding, even back then.
"What's it to you?" the first boy said as he turned.
Boom! Richart's fist connected to the boy's nose. Blood immediately began to trickle from the boy's nostrils and dripped down onto his tunic. Both of his hands flew up protectively to his face. "You've got something on your chin," Richart mocked as he stared defiantly at the other two boys. They didn't dare make a move.
"Come on, let's go," one of them said, and they all scurried off.
"Thanks," Grimbert mumbled.
"What idiots." Richart shook his hand, "He had a hard nose. Hope my hand's going to be okay." Then, looking at his friend, a small smile touched the corner of his lips, "You've got a little something on your forehead."
Grimbert spit into the palm of his hand and rubbed at his bangs. "Better?"
"Not really," Richart laughed, but it was a friendly sound, "But it's of no matter, come on, let's go."
Together they walked off. Grimbert couldn't remember to where. But he did remember his mother's reaction that evening. He had started to tell the story to her, changing some details to make himself seem less like a victim, but he kept the part with Richart punching the boy in the nose. "You never can do anything for yourself, can you?" she had sneered.
She had been right, hadn't she? Richart stood up for Grimbert when they were boys and gave him work in his shop once they were men. Now that Richart was gone, wasn't Grimbert duty bound to revenge his death?
He stared up at the stars once again and inhaled deeply.
His mother always told him that he never completed anything he started. He was a quitter. A slacker. But he wouldn't be that this time.
Grimbert stood up and dusted off his pants. He picked up his sword. It felt heavier in his hand than usual. He checked around where he had been laying to make sure his belongings were packed up and his horse's reins were left loose in case he needed to make a quick getaway. With a final hesitant huff, he began to slowly and methodically make his way back to where the bandits rested, being cautious not to make any sound.
He did his best to stoke his anger, to fan the flames hot and red so there would be no room for fear in his chest. He must avenge Richart's death or die trying. What mattered if he died? Richart had done everything for him, and he must repay what was due. Never mind his mother. And her doubts. He would prove her wrong. He was a man, and he would make this right.
As he reached the bandits, his breath caught in his throat. Luck was in his favor!
Sitting on the edge of camp, cleaning his nails with a knife, was the man who Grimbert blamed. Looking at him sitting so casually, so at ease, the flames of anger burning in Grimbert's chest erupted into an inferno.
His hand reflexively grabbed the hilt of his sword more tightly, his muscles grew taut, a bowstring ready to let an arrow fly. He had to force his lungs to expand and take a breath. Steadying himself, he crept even closer, remaining in the shadows until he was close enough to make out every feature of the man's face. He saw the beads of sweat on the man's brow, the creases in the corner of his eyes as he squinted down, the stubble on his chin, and the glint of something gold around his neck. Probably a trophy from another robbery.
Grimbert glanced over at the rest of the hastily constructed camp. He was reassured by the sleeping forms of the other men, the horses still and standing, tied to a tree branch, and the casual way in which the rest of their belongings were strewn around the clearing. Although they left one man on watch, they didn't seem overly concerned about an attack.
For Richart, Grimbert thought to himself as he stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight.
The man did not react right away. He was so engrossed in his activity that he didn't notice Grimbert approach from the side, his sword held up. But then, just as Grimbert reached striking distance, the man's head jerked around and he jumped up with a loud, "Hey!"
"You filth," Grimbert said, his voice somehow calm. Cold. And he lunged his blade forward. The man swerved, but not in time. Grimbert's aim was true and his blade dug deep right below the man's rib cage. It was hard to tell which man had a more shocked expression on his face as the sword buried itself deep into the man's flesh. Time momentarily slowed down. Grimbert had never killed a man before, and the reality of this sin hit him in a landslide.
"Help!" the bandit yelled as his life blood began to seep down his side. His companions roused, slowly at first, but then with urgency. Dying, he swung his knife in desperation at Grimbert, slicing his arm.
Grimbert ignored the sting and tugged his sword free, causing more blood to pour from the gaping wound. The other men were awake now, they were coming for him, but he hesitated before retreating. "This is but a small repayment for what you stole from me," he yelled, yanking the gold necklace from the dying man's neck and stuffing it down the front of his vest.
A fist collided with Grimbert's head. Another stab of pain bit at his already wounded arm. Grimbert was about to be pummeled, he was outnumbered and injured, but he was running on pure adrenaline. He swung out his sword, causing the other men to jump back. He yelled and turned, running faster than his stocky frame was used to.
He heard footsteps close behind. They were gaining. They yelled curses. A stone hit his back. His horse was in view; Richart's horse. It knickered as more stones were tossed in their direction. Grimbert paused only a moment to sheath his sword as he stepped into one stirrup and hauled himself astride his stead.
His heart was pounding in his ears as he galloped off, back down the road he had come from. The shouts faded as he rode away. He had escaped. He was safe. And he had made his revenge.
As he held the reins tightly, he was suddenly sickened by the fact that his hands were sticky with another man's blood. He leaned to one side and retched.