This day upon others
Lord protect a fool. That is my prayer. For a fool am I and in need of protection I am. Methinks only God Himself could rescue me from my worry. For I have commited an error of great magnitude and when discovered, surely will I hang.
Until this moment my life has been good. I was raised by parent’s fair. I am schooled and can both read and write. When of age I worked for my bread at my mother’s table and then for the coins in my pocket. My father has always respected me as I him. I have not stolen and little did I lie. My virtue is clear and my vice not to be seen. I work a hard day and sleep well for it. My work, I will tell you, is in support of the King’s army. Though not a soldier, I provide good service and am known as skilled in my field. And it is in the field that I do my work. And in doing my work, so did I lay the seeds of my ending.
I am a fellar of trees. I cut timber for His Majesty’s army. Both for the making of weapons and for for the wood that builds and the wood that burns. My axe is sharper than any wielded on the field and swung with greater precision. Though I am of medium height and build, I can fell an oak twenty inches across, with true aim, and clean the branches from it faster than larger men. Being able to both read and write, I could have sought more prestige than that of a forest cutter, but this is the line of work I was called to. As a pious man is called to the cloth, so was I called to the woods.
This day had begun well enough. A breakfast rich in meat and bread was put before me by the women who tend us. My clothes and tools were assembled and borne as if battle was expected. For battle was indeed near, and the wood I would cut today would be used in that battle. And proud of my service was I. The spikes that would impale enemy cavalry came from my hands. The wood to build bridges also came from my labours. And though not skilled in the art of bow making, the Welsh often came to me for advice and service on the treatments and care of their bow weapons. I was a respected man indeed. But that is gone now.
For at this moment I stand alone in the forest with an oak tree at my feet. I had chopped at this tree like I had a thousand before it. It cut as I wished and it fell as I desired. Where I pointed to on the ground is where it now lay. If arrows should be shot so precisely, battles would end in moments. Indeed I did my work well. Oh but how I wish I had erred, or ceased my labours for a moments pause. Because I will tell you that at this moment lies a Knight dead under this oak tree. By God’s Grace I swear I saw him not, but the tree fell upon him as he was excusing himself in the bushes. There was not a sound other than wood striking dirt, save a gentle ringing of steel like a child’s bell calling for mother to attend. And so does this brave Knight lie dead under this oak, his bottom armour removed for his purpose and his white legs splayed out on either side of the tree.
I am lost in indecision. If it were a common man I had killed perhaps the lash would meet out my just punishment, but this was a Knight in service to His Majesty. And on the day of battle no less. And when discovered in this most embarrasing of states, the Knights body will give sentence all out of proportion to my innocent intent. For this is not merely a death, but the death of a Knight in disgrace. His garment around his ankles like a wench in a bawdy house servicing a common man. For this I will surely pay with my life. What shall I do?
I will leave. I will take up my axe, carry what food I can and walk into oblivion. They will seek me out, perhaps one day they will find me. But for the days and months that are to come, I can toil for my bread and my coins as I have always done. But change my name will I. My Christian name of Edward is forgetton and dead. To my next patron will I introduce myself under an alias. “Good day to you Sire, Murphy am I called.”
