# Chapter 6: The Honor of a True Knight

  Herold’s hands were steady as he tucked the last copied parchment into the hidden slit inside his tunic. The ledgers were damning: payments to thousands of mercenaries, maps showing border extensions into Bavarian lands, letters signed by Frederick II and Conrad III promising land grants to Swabian lords who joined their cause. It was enough—more than enough—to prove the Hohenstaufens were preparing for war.

  He blew out the candle stub, slipped out of the study, locked the door behind him, and melted back into the servants’ passages. The feast still roared above—laughter, breaking glass, drunken songs. No one had noticed the missing guard yet.

  Then he heard it.

  A muffled cry. A low, cruel laugh. The same voice from earlier—Quintin Wettin’s.

  Herold froze in the shadowed corridor. The sound came from a half-open door to a small chamber off the main passage. He edged closer, peering through the crack.

  Quintin had the dark-haired kitchen girl—Anna—pinned against the wall. Her dress was torn at the shoulder; his hand was on her throat, the other roaming lower. She was crying, soft and broken, trying to push him away.

  Quintin:

  (smirking, voice thick with wine)

  Come now, little bird. Do you have a brother? A father? A lover, perhaps? I’ll have them brought here. Let them watch how I own you. Let them see what happens to peasant girls who catch my eye.

  Anna sobbed harder.

  Anna:

  (whispering)

  Please… my lord… mercy…

  Quintin laughed, shoving her down to her knees. He began fumbling with his belt.

  Herold’s blood turned to fire.

  Every oath he had ever sworn—honor, protection of the weak, justice—screamed in his head. His hand clenched around the dagger hilt beneath his tunic. He could end Quintin here—quick, quiet, one thrust to the throat. But the mission… the proofs… Bavaria needed them.

  Quintin pushed Anna flat on the floor, tearing at her dress.

  Herold had enough.

  He barged through the door—shoulder first, wood splintering.

  Quintin looked up, startled.

  Quintin:

  What the—?

  Herold’s fist cracked across Quintin’s jaw. The young lord’s head snapped back; he dropped like a felled tree, out cold before he hit the floor.

  Anna scrambled back, eyes wide with terror and shock.

  Anna:

  (whispering)

  You… you hit a lord…

  Herold knelt, breathing hard, checking Quintin’s pulse—alive, but unconscious for a while.

  Sir Herold:

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  (quiet)

  He deserved worse.

  Anna stared at him—then at Quintin’s crumpled form. Her voice trembled.

  Anna:

  They’ll kill us. Hitting a lord… even a servant’s word against his… we’re dead. Who are you?

  Herold hesitated. He couldn’t give his real name—not here, not now.

  Sir Herold:

  (roughened voice)

  Johann. Just… Johann.

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears. She sank to her knees, pulling a small dagger from her apron belt.

  Anna:

  (whispering)

  Then we die together. Better by my own hand than theirs.

  She raised the dagger to her throat.

  Herold caught her wrist—gently but firmly.

  Sir Herold:

  No. We’re not dying here. We’re leaving. Now.

  Anna stared at him, trembling.

  Anna:

  Leave? How? They’ll hunt us. A peasant girl and a kitchen hand who struck Lord Quintin? We’re dead the moment we step outside.

  Sir Herold:

  I have a way. Trust me.

  He helped her up. She was shaking, dress torn, but she nodded.

  Herold dragged Quintin’s unconscious body behind a tapestry, bound and gagged him with torn cloth from the bed. Then he led Anna through the servants’ passages—back toward the kitchens, then out a side door into the courtyard.

  They moved fast—Herold pulling her into shadows, avoiding patrols. Near the servants’ gate, a figure waited: Lady Rose Hawkthorn, hood up, eyes sharp.

  Rose:

  (whispering)

  You’re early. And… you brought company?

  Sir Herold:

  She was in danger. Quintin.

  Rose’s eyes flicked to Anna’s torn dress, then to Herold.

  Rose:

  You hit him.

  Sir Herold:

  He deserved it.

  Rose exhaled sharply.

  Rose:

  Foolish. But brave. The cart is waiting—same one that brought you. Go now. Before they notice he’s missing.

  Herold nodded.

  Sir Herold:

  Thank you, Lady Rose. The proofs are safe. Be aware... We’ll need more than papers soon.

  Rose pressed a small pouch into his hand—coins, bread, a cloak.

  Rose:

  Go. And God watch over you both.

  They slipped out the gate, into the waiting cart. The driver didn’t ask questions—just cracked the reins. The wagon lurched forward into the night.

  The journey west was tense—every hoofbeat on the road sounded like pursuit. Anna sat huddled under the cloak, silent for the first hours. Herold watched the treeline, hand on his dagger.

  Midway—somewhere in the dark hills between Swabia and Bavaria—Anna finally spoke.

  Anna:

  (quiet)

  Why did you do it? You could’ve walked away. You had what you came for.

  Sir Herold:

  A man who stands by while evil happens isn’t a man. He’s nothing.

  Anna looked at him—really looked.

  Anna:

  You’re no kitchen hand. You move like a soldier. Speak like a lord.

  Herold smiled faintly.

  Sir Herold:

  I’m just Johann. A man who hates seeing the weak hurt.

  Anna:

  (soft)

  In this world… only nobles and knights have rights. Commonfolk like us… we’re deemed dead the moment a lord wants us. You saved me. But they’ll still kill us if they catch us.

  Sir Herold:

  They won’t catch us.

  Anna:

  Why are we going west? Toward Bavaria? The guards will kill us on sight.

  Sir Herold:

  Trust me. Just a little longer.

  They reached the Bavarian border at dawn—mist rising from the Isar, a wooden watchpost with two guards in green cloaks.

  Herold stopped the cart. Anna tensed.

  Anna:

  (whispering)

  They’ll see us…

  Herold stepped down, pulling off the hood and fake beard. The filthy kitchen tunic was shed in one motion—revealing the clean green tunic beneath, silver sword sigil on his chest.

  The Guards stopped Herold, and a newbie guard asked who he was and what business he had near Bavarian borders.

  Herold didn't say anything, the Newbie guard got ready to take out his spear, but his senior saw him and looked at Herold.

  Senior Guard:

  SIR HEROLD! IS THAT YOU?

  All the guards snapped to attention.

  Newbie Guard:

  (Confused)

  Sir Herold?!

  Senior Guard:

  (bowing)

  Forgive us, my lord! We didn’t recognize you—the beard, the clothes…

  Sir Herold:

  (smiling)

  No harm done. Open the road.

  He turned to Anna, who stared in shock.

  Sir Herold:

  Come, Anna. You’re safe now.

  She stepped down, still trembling.

  Anna:

  You’re… Sir Herold Glint. The Blade of Nobility.

  Sir Herold:

  (soft)

  Yes, I am Sir Herold Glint. And you’re under my protection now.

  The guards bowed as they passed. The cart rolled into Bavaria.

  Anna looked back at the border, then at Herold.

  Anna:

  (quiet)

  What happens now?

  Sir Herold:

  You can talk to the head Maid and start working here.

  The road stretched ahead—toward Gundelfingen, toward duty, toward whatever fate awaited them.

  :To Be Continued