A Knight And White Satin-Jackie Ivie

Chapter Two

The lie ruled his life. Usually as an ache he barely felt. Sometimes it came as a raging belly of disgust. Sometimes it was muted, whispering through him and making him shudder with what those about him might be thinking. But always it was there; hovering in wait. That was when it was most powerful. When it was dormant… and he didn’t know for how long. That’s what he feared.

Payton took another blow and then another, until he was on his knees facing a sea of mud flecked with his own blood. Then, and only then would the lie subside and go deep into his soul where it would stir the hatred. He had to wait for the self-hate to get big enough and harsh enough. Then it turned everything into a red wash of color that would pump strength back to his limbs.

Then Payton would start to win.

It was ever this way. The battle would be lengthy, allowing the Stewart king time to flirt with his latest mistress, and his lords to wrangle and bet on the eventual winner. By then the King’s Champion would be faltering. His legs wouldn’t have much feel, his arms would be dead weight attached to his shoulder, and it became a fight simply to lift his shield to ward off yet another blow. This was when the king covered most of the wages. Because somehow the diminutive Stewart knew.

He knew it would happen. He didn’t know that the lie Payton harbored was solidifying and glowing, warming until it became hot, and then it got dangerous. It became fire—sending rage to every part of him with every pump of his heart. He gave a warning. He always gave a warning, with a yell so deep and guttural, he could hear the applause already starting, before it was drowned out by the drums. The king always had drummers at his side, keeping a light prancing cadence of taps throughout the evening until it was the only thing he heard.

This time went exactly the same. They’d found him a Welshman capable of making a decent fight, sponsored by a nameless prince with a dull purse. The Welshman was also covered in animal hide trews and tunic and smelled worse than a latrine at high summer.

Payton didn’t wait until his yell died out. He couldn’t. He wasn’t in control, anymore. The lie was. It turned him into a hate-filled menace that was feeding off the drumbeat until his movements matched them. His shield felt as light as feathers, his club had the same weight of bread, and he used both to pummel; striking again and again at the man he was facing until they’d call a halt, and even then he seldom heard it at first.

King James usually stopped it with a blast from his pipes, immediately followed by the cessation of the drums. Sometimes, he had to send men onto the field to pull Payton from his opponent. On those rare occasions, it felt like the self-hate was consuming him, frightening him with the intensity of it as he waited for the woman behind it all to open her mouth, branding him a fool, a coward, and a fraud.

The Welshman looked like a mud-covered heap of dead animal. He groaned occasionally, showing his defeat. He was still breathing. He lived. Payton turned away and stalked from them. It was time to hide in his chambers, where his bath and a feast would be waiting for him, as well as a lovely wench to make sure it was all to his satisfaction. He didn’t look twice at the Welshman. He didn’t care.

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