Young Writers Society

"Who will rid me of this demanding priest?" the King bellowed, throwing his tankard of ale in the air. "I carpet his chapel with velvet and still he asks me to give money to the poor!" He looked at his subjects, seated either side of him at the table. "Well? What do you think?"

At the King's prompting, they all nodded their heads and muttered words of agreement. "He should be punished, Milord. What a greedy man indeed."

"Exactly. And to think that we used to school side by side. But no! He sees himself higher above me now, a man of God, making all these demands." He raised the tankard to his lips, taking no notice when the liquid dripped down his chest.

"What shall we do, Sire?" one knight asked.

"What shall you do? Drink some more, of course, before my old friend claims it for himself!" The King banged his vessel on the table and a servant poured more ale. He muttered under his breath, "Who'll rid me of 'im?"

After supper four of the King's knights met in the courtyard. Their horses were ready to ride and their swords sharpened.

“Are you confident we're doing the right thing?” the youngest of the four asked. As he mounted his horse, the evening sun glistened on his armour.

“You heard the King,” the eldest replied. “'Who shall rid me of this demanding priest?' That's what he said and I bet there's a nice reward for whoever brings him the greedy oaf's head.”

It was agreed that they would go assassinate the Priest on the King's orders. The brother knights vowed that they would share responsibility, so they would be equally rewarded.

When the King awoke in the morning a messenger was waiting for him.

“Your knights would like to request an audience out-of-doors, Milord.”

“What do they want at this hour?” He rubbed his aching head, regretting all he'd drunk the night before.

“I do not know, Milord, but there was blood on their hands.” The messenger bowed and exited the chamber.

Reluctantly, the King threw on his pants and robe, then wobbled downstairs. This better be important, he thought.

In the courtyard, the four knights bowed as he came into view. When they leaned downwards the King thought he saw blood covering the horse behind them, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light.

“My King,” the eldest knight said, “we have done as you asked. My brothers and I-”

“What was it that I asked?” The King steadied himself, trying to remember.

The armour clad men stepped aside so the horse, and the figure upon it, were revealed. “We have killed the priest as you requested.”

The King let out a gasp and fell forwards, clutching the grass. His old friend's body was strung across the animal, bruised and bloody. The Priest's torso was shredded, his face blue as the sky. The King felt bile rise in his throat and looked away.

“Milord, are you okay?” The youngest knight offered his hand.

“When shall we collect our reward?” Asked the elder.

“Reward?!” Shouted the trembling King. “I did not order the Priest's execution! You have slain my good friend!”

The younger knight glanced nervously at his brothers. “But you said, at the supper...”

“Your words exactly, my good King,” continued another knight, “were 'who shall rid me of this demanding priest?'”

The King pulled at his hair, screaming and weeping. The throbbing in his head, caused by too much ale, was magnified tenfold. “I did not mean any of it! I was angry! My mind was not my own!” Guilt overcame him like the shadow of Death. “My friend is slain and it is all my fault!”

The knights shuffled uncomfortably on the lawn, trying to shield the horse from his sight. The youngest knight once again offered a shaking hand to his King but he slapped it away.

“Go! Go and pray for forgiveness!” the King shouted. He wished to mourn alone.

That evening, the King arranged the most lavish funeral of the century, yet no amount of gold could dampen his regret.

Therefore, as soon as the sun rose, the King walked barefoot along the streets of his city. Lining the cobbled paths were one hundred monks, each holding a strand of leather. They whipped the King as he stumbled past, leaving a trail of red footprints for all to see.

No matter how much the King repented, he knew the Priest's blood would forever stain his hands. No amount of ale could wash it away, and the ruler only found peace when he joined his friend in death.