The road to Fulford wound through fields and scattered copses of trees, the late sun painting the land in gold. At first, the cart creaked along in silence, the peasants glancing nervously at their armored companion. But slowly, as the minutes stretched and the mule plodded on, their fear seemed to soften.
It started with the children. Edith, emboldened by her earlier play, scrambled across the cart's boards and climbed onto Gwyndolin's back as though he were nothing more than a friendly tree. Her tiny fingers tugged at the great plume crowning his helm, giggling as she sent it bobbing left and right.
That broke the dam.
Questions began to fly at him from every side, as relentless as a volley of arrows.
"Is that real steel, my lord?" Athelstan asked, eyes fixed on the polished plates that gleamed in the fading light. "Never seen armor like that," Aldred muttered in awe.
"Not even the king himself wears such fine harness. Where was it forged?" "And that hammer, my lord!" Athelstan added, pointing at the massive weapon slung across William's back. "It looks as though it could shatter a cottage in one blow!"
William chuckled, enduring Edith's playful assault on his plume. "Easy, little lady," he said, shifting her gently to his arm before answering.
The armor truly was a marvel here, and he knew it. The Raging Wolf set — deep steel plates sculpted to the body, their edges chased with faint ridges that caught the light like ripples of water.
The face was hidden behind a smooth visor, pierced only by narrow slits for sight and breath and long plume of deep red horsehair. The little girl's fingers kept reaching for it, fascinated by the way it shimmered and swayed with every movement.
Across his back rested the true terror: a Warhammer that seemed as heavy as a tree trunk. Its haft was thick and wrapped in dark leather for grip, and the head was brutal in its design. One side ended in a flat, crushing face — a single blow enough to shatter shields or bones. The other tapered into a wicked beak of hardened steel, sharp enough to punch through iron as if it were cloth.
Edith tilted her head up at him, wide-eyed. "Why are you so heavy, lord knight?" she asked, her small hands gripping the steel plates of his arm.
He smiled, adjusting his voice to something softer, gentler. "Because a knight must be strong. Strong enough to carry this armor, strong enough to swing that hammer—and strong enough to protect those who cannot fight for themselves."
Aldred and Athelstan exchanged a puzzled glance. Athelstan finally cleared his throat. "My lord… forgive the ignorance. But… what is a knight? We have heard no such word before."
The cart wheels creaked on in the silence that followed, all eyes fixed on Gwyndolin. The children stared with the same curiosity as their fathers, waiting for an answer to a word that to them was as strange as "Viking" had been earlier.
"In an ideal world," he began, "a knight is supposed to be more than just a man in armor. He is strength, yes — but strength put to purpose. A knight protects the weak, upholds justice, and serves his lord with honor."
Aldred frowned faintly, scratching at his beard. "So… like a thegn?"
William shook his head. "Not quite. A thegn fights for land and for reward. A knight fights for something higher — an oath. His word is his chain, binding him to loyalty, to courage, to mercy where it is deserved… and to wrath where it is needed."
Athelstan leaned forward, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "And what of riches, my lord? Surely such men seek silver, or land, or power?"
William gave a short laugh, tilting his head so that the crimson plume shifted above Edith's delighted fingers. "Some do. Too many, in truth. But a true knight…" He tapped his breastplate softly, the steel ringing beneath Edith's hand. "A true knight does not measure his worth in coin, but in the lives he saves, in the vows he keeps."
Edith's small voice broke the quiet. "And… do you save people, lord knight?"
William smiled, though the expression was hidden beneath his helm. "I try," he said simply. "That is what it means to carry this weight. Not just the armor, or the hammer, but the duty that comes with them."
"Enough about me for now. What can you tell me about Northumbria?"
Athelstan sighed his gaze shifting to the road as though speaking of his homeland carried some invisible weight. " well it seen better days my lord knight that can say for sure "
Aldred lowered his eyes, choosing his words with care."My lord… I know little of such matters. Only what passes through the mouths of travelers and men-at-arms. They say the lords quarrel among themselves, and men are called to fight when they'd rather tend their fields."
He glanced at his brother, then back at William."From the north, the Picts ride down at times, burning what they please. And closer to home… well, it is not for the likes of me to judge, but the land feels… restless. Too many swords, not enough plows."
Athelstan added quietly, almost in a whisper, "Best to keep our heads low, my lord. The doings of kings and nobles reach us soon enough, whether we will them or no."
Aldred's mouth tightened as he gave a weary nod. "And some," he said, voice low, "have dropped their plows altogether. Turned to the road with blades in hand. Hard times make desperate men."