Six months elapsed since my arrival and the passing of time seemed as fleeting as a spring rain. It seemed as if no time had passed at all. The depth of familiarity and peace that I now experienced in this once unfamiliar place had long since eased the earlier strain of losing my life on the farm. The daily routine was as familiar and easy to me now as farm life had once been.

One evening after a long grueling day of sparring, training, and observing in the king’s court, I made my way to the dining hall intending to eat and retire early for the night. As I neared the dining area, Akia, my sparring partner for the day, spotted me. He, along with several others he frequently kept company with, were making their way out of the garrison.

“Newbie!” He hollered as moved to intercept me.

Never mind the fact that I had been here for months and could no longer be considered “new.” Yet, in the recent weeks, several had begun to refer to me in this manner. At first it seemed a condescension. Over time, I came to realize that their tagging me as such was actually their means of extending their hands in friendship. It was actually a sign of my growing acceptance and welcome among the larger ranks of the king’s army. Upon that realization, my heart welled with the warmth of the designation and I was filled with a deep satisfaction at its usage.

“We’re headed into town to eat at The Lost Pony. Join us!” Akia invited. As he spoke, the three other soldiers with him stopped and turned to look in our direction. I had often seen them but had never sparred with or conversed with any of them.

The one standing closest to us hollered out, “Akia, let’s go! We’re hungry!”

“Coming!” He yelled back. Then he turned and sprinted back toward his buddies.

Still facing my direction, the soldier hollered again, addressing me this time. “You coming banner boy?” His tone was full of mirth and joy and filled with genuine authenticity.

I only hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, I’m in.” Despite my exhaustion, this was the first time I had been invited to join anyone outside of the king’s guard into town. And from the tone of Akia’s friend, it was clear that I was actually wanted. Therefore, despite my weariness and exhaustion and despite my initial plans to retire early for the night, I sprinted after them, accepting their invitation.

As we entered The Lost Pony, which turned out to be a pub and inn toward the center of town, the room quieted for a moment before a cry of elation rose from those who filled the room. Grins broke out on all four of their faces. A middle-aged man approached from the center of the room where he had been when we entered. His face was alight with a smile and his arms were open wide as he neared.

“Akia, Jamison, Seth, Luca! Good to see you, boys!” He hugged each one with a firm, brisk hug. “How ya doing? Why have you been such strangers to my pub?”

It was Akia who responded. “Good to see you, Trevor! Ah, ya know…life in the king’s army keeps one busy!” He laughed, throwing his arm around my shoulders as he did. “I want you to meet someone. This,” he pointed at me, “is the king’s newest banner bearer. Valiant.”

Trevor’s expression started to darken, and you could visibly see his defenses go up. Noticing the change in demeanor as quickly as I did, Akia raised his left hand, clamping it on Trevor’s right shoulder, still embracing me with his right arm around my shoulder. “Nah man, this one’s different. His old man was the king’s chief guard back in the day.”

At the mention of my father, and at his knowledge of my father’s former position, I jerked my head towards Akia with a sharp snap. I was startled by his knowledge of my father and the role he formerly played.

Akia, noticing my look, just laughed. Throwing both hands up in the air, he retorted, “Hey, the men talk.” Throwing his arm around my shoulder again, he pulled me tight to his side, laughing all the while.

I laughed with him, the surprise draining out of me. I am not sure why I had expected that piece of information not to get out. I should have realized the minute the king uttered it that the whole of his army would know.

Slapping his hand on my chest now and giving it a double pat with his palm, he boasted to Trevor, “He’s from different stock than the others. He ain’t your usual wealthy aristocrat.” Shaking his head as spoke. “Nope. The Cap has gone and done a good thing with this one. Shoulda’ seen this one hold his own after taking a direct hit to his man stuff.” He laughed even harder now when he saw the look on my face. This was yet another story I should not have been surprised that all men knew.
Trevor’s face immediately softened, and his huge smile returned as quickly as it had begun to disappear.

“Well, how about that. Sounds like a story I need to hear!” Laughing he continued, “Welcome young soldier! You are welcome at my establishment anytime! Come, foods on me tonight! Consider it my welcome to the King’s army!” He laughed a jovial and joyous laugh as he grabbed my hand, pumping it in welcome and newfound friendship. I couldn’t help myself; I broke into a huge smile myself and expressed my pleasure at meeting him and my thanks for the kindness of his generosity.

He led us into the room. He seated us at the large round table at the center. Before long, we had our food and drinks and were merrily eating, swapping stories, and laughing. Akia and crew found great joy in sharing my training blunders, stories that surprised even me. They had apparently been watching, or others had been talking, for far longer than I had known. It seemed as if I had been the center of attention, without knowing it, since my arrival. As they laughed and teased, soon, everyone was fair game, and I was laughing as they shared their own training mishaps, both from their beginning days as well as current. Soon, others around us started participating in our conversation and before long, it felt like the whole room was deeply immersed in one single conversation. The laughter and joy that I experienced now was a welcome relief to the intensity of training and focus I had been enduring for months.

I leaned back in my chair, exhausted. More from laughter now than from the day’s training. As I observed my comrades, now friends, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace, satisfaction, and thankfulness for where I was. How it differed from just a few months ago when I struggled against resentment and pain at my father’s choice. Acceptance and surrender to the wisdom of the wise was having its rich and profound effect. I could now rest and delight in my path and circumstance because I had come to trust the will and wisdom of one greater than myself. Now I realized the freedom and joy that such surrender brings.

Deep in thought, I did not see the man approach until his frail hand rested upon my right shoulder. I turned to see an elderly man, bent with age, shakily standing at my side. I was struck by how feeble and frail he appeared. He seemed ready to topple over at any moment.

“May I?” He inquired, gesturing at my chair.

I startled, realizing he as asking to be seated and I quickly rose to offer the man my chair. Holding his arm, I steadied him as he eased down into his seat. Grabbing another chair from a neighboring table, I seated myself next to him.

Before I could inquire, he spoke. His words were lost in the clamor of the room. Asking him to repeat it and leaning forward so that my ear was near his mouth, I heard him rasp, “I have been listening.” His voice was so quiet, even with my ear near his mouth, I had to strain to hear him. He continued, “I want to tell you a story.”

As he spoke, Akia turned and noticed his presence. He immediately began to silence the conversations still taking place at the table. The silence spread as one by one the room began to notice the old man’s presence. They each, in turn, directed their attention to where he sat. Their expressions bore respect and even a bit of surprise.

Silence fell. Complete. Total. Not even the sound of clinking silverware or shuffling of feet could be heard. Trevor popped out of the back and walked over the our table when he spotted the old man. Grabbing a chair, he sat even as the old man began to speak.

“When I was a young boy, my village was attacked by a band of marauders.”

He clasped his hands together as he spoke. The tension and angst clear in his agitation. His voice was quiet, raspy. It bore the weight and pain of old memories and long years.

“They killed, no,” he corrected, “they ravaged and slaughtered, brutally, all the men of the village, including my father.”

Taking a deep breath, he spat out words, hard with emotion, that seem to cause him physical pain as he spoke them, “They made us, women and children, watch as they brutally and violently executed them one by one by drawing and quartering them.”

A single tear escaped his right eye as he spoke, running down his face. He made no attempt to wipe it away. I gasped. Hard. Instinctively, I recoiled. I have always heard about the horrors of drawing and quartering, but I had never heard of anyone actually witnessing or enduring such torture. Leaning back into my chair, I glanced around the room and was shocked to see that no one else appeared surprised by this. I realized that they had likely already heard or knew this man’s tale. Heads were bowed and dipped, and people sat in solemn silence as he continued.

Gazing into the memory he was relating, eyes glassy, he continued.

“My father was among the first. They stripped him, naked as the day he was born, tying each of his limbs to a separate horse. Urging their horses to gallop…”

He seemed to stall, to hesitate for a moment. Then, quietly, and barely a whisper, “…we heard his joints pop out of place when they reached the end of their rope. His arms and legs spread as wide as they could make them go.”

The silence in the room was deafening. He closed his eyes, pausing, and taking a deep breath before he continued. “Using a red-hot stake, they drove it through his flesh and bone in his arms and legs.” Tears began to flow freely now down his cheeks as he spoke. “His cries of agony were unbearable. My mother and I screamed, kicked against our captors who held us and forced us to watch. Taking hot tar, they poured it into the now open wounds in his flesh. They poured it slowly over his face and chest, his torso, groin, legs, and feet. Every inch of his flesh was covered the hot black tar by the time they were finished. The searing heat melting his flesh.”

Clenching his eyes even more tightly, as if he could force the images out of his mind by doing so, he muttered, almost to himself, “The screams….”

Tears flowed freely from his face now, eyes still closed, as he recalled the images burned deeply upon his mind. The shock of what I was hearing was so horrific to me that both rage and grief welled up in me. I was picturing my own father being treated thus and anger like I have never felt before rose in me.

“When they were done with this, they quartered him.” His voice, already raspy and low, dropped even lower. The silence in the room was so complete that his words were still easily heard. Not a breath was breathed. Not a pin dropped. Not a sound invaded this moment.

At his revelation, hot tears sprung to my eyes and began to flow down my face. My vision blurred and the shock of what he revealed bore down on me with an intensity that felt like a crushing weight to my chest.

His voice still low, “For an hour they urged those horses in different directions, yanking and pulling his limbs to the extreme end of their limit.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Just enough to tear flesh and cause my father excruciating pain. But not enough yet to sever his limbs from his body. I still remember the sound that his bones and joints made when they popped and cracked, coming free from their connections, snapping under the extreme pressure. His flesh tearing. His screams.”

He fell silent now and heaved great heaves of sorrow, anger, and grief. I could say nothing. Do nothing. I just sat there, silent, still, and frozen with the horror.

His body stilling once more, he continued. “After an hour of this, they laughed and taunted him, relieving themselves on him. Then they finally tired of their game. Urging their horse even more violently now, they forced them into opposite directions repeatedly until the force of it….” His voice trailed off as if he could not bring himself to say it.

“Later, they made us, his children and wife, retrieve his dismembered limbs, placing them near his torso. As we did,” his voice cracked, “we saw his chest still moving. He was still breathing, still alive.”

I stood violently, shoving my chair back with the force of it. I practically ran for the door. No sooner had I stepped out into the night air, I keeled over and vomited my dinner onto the ground. The sheer shock of what he described descending on me in violent convulsions. On my hands and knees now, I heaved with anger, revulsion, and grief at the atrocities this man and his father endured. Tears flowed, not just freely now, but in waves of rage and force that left my body spasming in pain. After what felt like an eternity, I felt a hand on my back, and someone gripped my left arm. As my body began to still, I felt another hand on my back and someone else wrapped their arm over my shoulder from the right. I kneeled, body still heaving but slowly, little by little beginning to settle. These hands and arms held me, firm, unmoving, and unwavering until my body was once more calm. Raising my head, I glanced to my right and left and saw Akia and Seth kneeling next to me; their own faces wet with tears. Understanding, grief, and strength etched upon their faces. We remained there for some moments, still nauseous and weak.

Finally, they helped me to my feet. I was unsteady and wobbly, but their supportive arms held me firm until I was able to manage on my own. Seth held out his hand, offering me the cloth in it to wipe my face. Wiping tears, mucus, and vomit off my face, I tossed the cloth to the ground. Gripping them both, I acknowledged my gratitude and thanks without a word. Together, we reentered the pub, winding our way back to our seats.

The old man looked at me, sad and weary, but peaceful. He gently laid his hand on my leg in calm comfort and assurance. He left it there while he spoke. “Every man in the village was tortured thus. Not one man over the age of 18 escaped such a death. And we were forced to watch it all. By the end, we were hopeless and defeated. Exactly how they wanted us. Docile. The fight driven out of us. No longer were we kicking and screaming, fighting, and resisting. We were defeated. Subjugated.”

He looked around the room now. Every eye was intent on him. The deep silence had not once been broken and it was not broken now. He looked back at me.

“My lad, I tell you this because I want you to know something of the role you play for our king. This was in the day of the kings’ father when he was newly upon the throne. He was swift in action. We did not know it at the time, but a young lad from the village escaped and ran to the nearest garrison. The minute the king heard, he dispatched a force of troops to our village. While we stood watching our loves ones be tortured and killed, the king himself rode out from the castle with his men. When he arrived, the first thing we saw was that banner.”

The old man looked at me now. Eye to eye. I dared not blink. I could not blink. His gaze locked into mine and we did not break as he spoke. “That banner came flying up over the crest of the hill at the same moment we heard the bugle sound and the shout of soldiers as they stormed into the village. In that moment, hope was restored. The KING WAS HERE!” His voice rose, growing louder as he spoke. “No longer were we defeated, hopeless, helpless! Our salvation had come!” His voice no longer bore the raspy roughness nor the marks of weakness. Strength and power sounded in his voice. He straightened up sitting taller in chair. “The king himself was not yet in sight, but we knew he was there. We rose from our places, and once again began to fight back, to resist! As quickly as our hope had been decimated, it had been rekindled! We rallied! Women and child alike, for that was all that was left in our village! But we answered the call! We flocked to our king!”

Taking a deep breath, his excitement overextending him, he relaxed and settled back into the chair he had half risen out of.

In tone of satisfaction and with a smile on his face he declared, “It felt like mere moments before the battle was over. The marauders defeated.”

A smile broke upon his face. “The king, our king….my king,” he reverently whispered, “He was there in our midst! Our savior, our protector, our refuge! He had come for us! We were saved! We were his!”

Still never breaking gaze, he admonished, “Banner Bearer, know this…. I will die for such a king! He is worthy of every ounce of what I have to offer. I will do it gladly. When that banner rose over the crest of the hill, we knew our protector and salvation had arrived. We knew our strength and might had come. And we had hope. We answered the call and joined with our king who had come to bring us back into the safety of his refuge.” He paused, “That banner you bear…. that banner is our king….and nothing is more precious than that!”

He finally broke his gaze, lowered his head, drew his hand back and retreated to this haven of his chair where he sat.

I gazed at him with awe, wonder, and admiration beyond words. Slowly, sounds of life returned to the room with chairs scraping as they eased back from their places and people stood, taking their leave now. Murmurs and voices could begin to be heard in hushed tones. Sniffles and blowing of noses were heard around the room.

As for me, I could not move. I sat stone still; head now dipped to my chest. Even when the old man rose and shuffled off, I could not move, could not budge. As he passed me by, he patted me on the shoulder.

“This king, though the son of my king in those days, is every bit as great and good as his father. Do him well, young soldier. Do him well.”

I glanced up at him as he spoke. Our eyes met and locked for a moment. Then I dipped my head in acknowledgement and he shuffled off.

Soon, Akia moved to occupy the seat he had only moments ago. Gazing after the old man, he murmured, “He went on to join the king’s army and become one of the greatest warriors of his day. In his later years, he became a chief advisor to the king. He is among the most respected among us.”

I looked at Akia. His gaze still fixed on the retreated form of the old man as he exited the pub. The respect and admiration on his face was clear enough.

“He surprised us all tonight. He has not ventured out much these days. And he has not told that tale in many years.”

I suddenly felt humbled and honored, unworthy to have been the recipient of this man’s tale and story. The weight of the task before me grew exponentially. My respect for the king had grown much in the past weeks. But to know the king’s father, a man whose influence would have been abundant upon his son, was responsible for such an act of salvation and deliverance only further deepened what I already knew to be true.

Listening to this man’s story, I also understood something else. The banner, the king, represented power, protection, might, and safety. The banner that I would bear, the king I would represent was a king of might and power, a king of safety and refuge. So much so, that when his banner flew into that village years ago, it had a profound effect of instilling hope and courage, of calling men to arms who responded immediately because of their confidence in the one to whom the banner represented. Even without seeing his face, they knew of his presence, trusted him, and responded.

No indeed. Nothing about my role as banner bearer was what I had grown up believing. It was far grander and far more magnanimous than I had ever been led to believe. And I felt incredibly unworthy to bear it. But I also determined that as long as it was my role to play, I would do so with the might, trust, hope, and confidence that the Banner himself elicited.