“Coward.”

The word was spat at me with the disgust of someone who had discovered manure stuck to their shoe. The speaker was one of the captured peasants, an elderly woman who leaned heavily on a crutch. Bold words, considering that I was mounted and wearing armor, while she and her neighbors cowered in the mud like dogs.

I reigned in my horse upon hearing the insult, turning I went to address the wretch.

“You there, old woman,” I called out, pointing. “I will forgive this slander once, but mark my words I will not hesitate to deliver the letter of the law if I deem it necessary.”

Several of those around her took an involuntary step back. Pitiful. Granted, they could do little else to preserve themselves at this point. Regardless, the way they flinch like animals, abandoning their own, disgraceful.

“I care not for you threats, you iron-clad cur,” She taunted, hobbling forward. “A coward you are through and through. If you want proof, I’ll prove it to you!”

I dismounted. Took two steps, raising a mailed fist. If I struck her now, I could easily kill her, without even drawing my sword. Yet, something stayed my hand. Was it curiosity perhaps? Boredom? Or maybe it was the confidence in her stare? That defiant, gleam in her eye that commanded as if she was an old queen, rather than a muddy cripple. I indulged my curiosity, there were none of my comrades around to watch the spectacle anyway.

I laughed openly. “Go ahead then, prove it!”

The old woman sat down, gesturing for me to join her. The peasants still seemed too frightened to act, so with some difficulty, I crouched facing her.

“I will tell you a story,” the old hag croaked.

“As long as it doesn’t take too long, we are on a schedule.”

The woman closed her eyes ignoring my remark, and began to speak in a low, clear voice that did not seem to match her.

“A coward, a jester, a brigand, and a knight, came to a field deciding to fight. The coward ran away just before the fray, saying that blood was not his right. And the jester simply snickered, amused at the unruly sight.”

“What sort of story is this?” I demanded. The storyteller opened her eyes and glared at me.

“This story is its own. Have we any right to lock it away into such a box?”

“Then is it a true story?”

“The story is. That is all it can be; besides, truth is a cunning thing, it comes and goes on a whim.”

I opened my mouth to object to that point, but the storyteller continued without warning.

“The brigand is a dangerous one, willy, treacherous, and bold. But the knight is formidable, trained in the ways of old. The jester stands to the side, mocking each in turn. Little did he know a grim lesson was he to learn. For as the others swing blades, his neck is struck and he curses his bad luck.”

I was confused by the rambling woman’s tale, but I dared not interrupt again.

“Now the brigand and the knight were at an impasse. The knight’s armor preserving him from the brigand, and the brigand’s wits preserving him from the knight. Both warriors began to grow weary from their fighting, but as he grew wearier, the brigand began using more desperate tricks. The knight for his part began adopting the brigand’s fighting style. He found that his rigid ways were not enough for a quick victory, so he set aside honor and threw dust in the brigand’s eyes.

The knight found himself to be victorious, his foe slain and the field empty. Tired from the conflict, the knight removed his helmet…

…only to have his throat slit by the coward.

The coward, who had waited patiently for the moment when both honor and wits were abandoned, when the brave let go of their integrity.

And so, the coward claimed that armor as his own, and left unchallenged.”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

She nodded.

“How does that prove I’m a coward? It makes no sense.”

“Then let me explain it to you. The fighters are the different natures warring within your heart. Cowardice seems to disappear when confronted by duty does it not? And in the name of duty, we kill our ability to laugh and jest, thereby forgetting joy. And then our duty is challenged by someone with nothing to lose. Everything that matters to us means nothing to them, and to defeat them we ourselves abandon what matters to us, eventually losing our last remnants of character.

It is at that very second that cowardice will strike! It waits lurking, knowing when we are weakest. More often than not, that cowardice wins and whatever was left of our values are thrown away. What remains is a mask, a shell of who we were, filled with a horrid, festering cravenness.”

I took off my helmet. “Good lady, how do I make this right within myself?”

“Don’t let the coward run, keep him locked away where you know he is. Spare the jester, and you will spare your spirit. Learn from the brigand, but send him on his way. And finally, discipline the knight so that he does not forget his oaths, and loses not his honor.”

“And how am I to regain my honor?”

The old woman cracked a smile and gestured to her fellow peasants. “We have no quarrel with you or your lord. Let us go, for we do not care who runs the kingdom. Just let us live our lives.”

And on that strange day, I disobeyed orders from my king, so that I might regain my own honor. All because a coward, a jester, a brigand, and a knight, came to a field deciding to fight.