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William of Greywood

By Emmanuel Williams

September 23, 2026

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William

Deep in the forests of Greywood Isle sits a grey brick wall surrounding a small city of stone structures, known as Stoneland. In the colosseum at the rear of Stoneland Castle, an annual tournament is coming to an end.

“It is now down to two champions,” screams a man from the center of the worn grass, surrounded by spectators from far and wide across the great island. “It is time! The battle is to the death, for only one can wield the golden shield, and claim he is best in the land! I give you: Sir Shorn of the Freelands!” 

Aside him stood two men who could not be so vastly different, on his left, a lanky man of only a score of years, stood tall and battle weary, but determinedly raised his lengthy arm, sword piercing the sky, as his name was called.

“And Lord Edmund of Castle Grey!”

The man to the right simply stared straight ahead. His musculature like that of a bear or a lion, no one could say which more, but he opened his mouth and lifted his arms but a few inches, and roared as his head shook full of black hair. He must have fifteen years on Sir Shorn, and had won the tourney twice in the past. 

Each man’s squire stood just paces from their knights, holding the reigns of their lord’s battle horse, each with wide metal sheets protectively spread across their head and body. A jousting stick in the other hand.

A horn sounded from overhead, and each man retreated to mount.

Lord Edmund’s squire, a man nearer the age of Shorn, and far more normally proportioned, began to affix Edmund’s saddle, adjust the straps that fell from it to fit his lord’s broad feet, when Edmund lost patience and climbed aseat with the squire’s hand still working the strap. His fingers crushed by his heavy boot.

“Goddammit, Edmund!” he screamed, still stuck beneath his Lord’s foot.

“Out of the way, boy,” Edmund yelled back. Jerking his foot out, leaving torn skin on William’s hand. But before he could save his spirit, the knight kicked him rough and deliberately sharp to the shoulder. He flew yards away as Lord Edmund trotted into place, yelling back, “that’ll do, boy!”

As another horn blew, and the men kicked their horses, and they burst toward each other… William stood at the wall surrounding the stage, considering a thousand ways in which Lord Edmund could die.

There was the second stage of the contest, in which his Lord would die of his disadvantage in reach. If Sir Shorn deflected any advance to the ground, all he had to do was bring the sword down from above, it would enter Edmund’s skull and further divide his spine in two clean halves. Sir Shorn would have mercy on William and give him half of the skull for his misery at the hands of his lord. Who had always given William the short sword.

Of course, they could disarm each other, with the weapons at their feet as they went hand to hand, eventually wrestling, and when Edmund had Shorn in the choke, Shorn’s arms would flail about for a weapon, which would be easy for him, then with one wide arch it would come down on Edmund’s neck. And William would retrieve it from the battlefield, and display it on the wall of his dwelling. A cautionary tale of wanton brutality.

But Edmund won the joust. At which point William left the arena, found a watering hole, and drank pint after pint, imagining more ways for Lord Edmund to bite the big one.

At dusk, Lord Edmund himself came in, and the tavern flocked to him. “Like flies to shit,” thought William out loud. He slipped out the door, refusing to join such celebrations. 

As he walked through stoneland, he drifted toward the castle. Once he got close enough to see through its windows, he began hurling quiet insults he hoped were inaudible.

“Mangy feckin royals… botherin the public… take taxes from poor squires… Lords and Ladies alike… fockin royal pri-” he stopped himself. Just a flight high, a lady had removed her dress, and her chest stood bare to the window outside, apparently enjoying what breeze came through it. And she had spotted him staring.

They both froze.

Then, she came closer. Then, she smiled at him. Then, to his utter shock, she beckoned him.

“Climb, good sir,” she said. Pointing to a pine tree with easily reachable, sturdy branches.

It all seemed too convenient to William, but he did as he was told. And shared the lady’s bed for the evening.

In the morning, he climbed back down and headed straight for his dwelling closer to the city wall. Along his way his path was interrupted by a heckling tourney fan by the name of Dorian. Dorian had begun insulting William as soon as he saw him.

“What’s the world’s lousiest squire doing walking so briskly this morning,” he shouted. Hoping anyone else around would hear as well. “Did you just visit the goat fields? I’ll be one of them’s pregnant now! You got anything to say about that, Willy? Better make sure Lord Edmund’s junk is shaved so he can bend your mother over tonight! Perhaps he’ll smack a better son out of that fat ass of hers!”

William turned at his final remark and drew his sword. It was more like a long dagger taken from a scrap chest, but it was his, and his honor needed protecting.

“Where the hell’d you get that piece of shit,” mocked Dorian. Who drew his own sword, and they stared each other down as they began to circle slowly, looking for a way through each other’s guard position.

Suddenly William yelled, and charged…

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